THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 


Direct  Action  planted  "James  Smith"  a 
suit-case,  and  a  raincoat  in  the  middle  of  the 
county  of  Norfolk  at  ten  o'clock  one  night, 
with  rain  imminent. 

After  wandering  aimlessly  about,  he  ap- 
proached a  large  house  and  rang  the  bell.  The 
butler  immediately  recognised  him  as  "Mr. 
Alfred"  the  missing  son  of  the  house. 

From  that  point,  "Smith"  found  himself  in 
for  an  exciting  time.  Not  only  had  he  in- 
herited the  friends  of  "Mr.  Alfred,"  but  the 
odium  of  his  misdoings. 

Protestations  were  useless.  "He's  lost  his 
memory,  the  poor  lamb,"  said  his  old  nurse, 
and  everybody  clutched  joyfully  at  this  ex- 
planation. 

Extraordinary  complications  ensued,  and 
the  most  impossible  situations  arose,  because 
the  actual  Alfred  was — well,  not  all  he  ought 
to  have  been.  Then  there  was  Marjorie — 
the  worst  complication  of  all. 


W  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  ANGELES 


THE 
RETURN  OF  ALFRED 


BY 

THE 

AUTHOR 

OF 

"PATRICIA  BRENT, 
SPINSTER" 


NEW  HlMK  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,    1922, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED.      II 
PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


TO 

THOSE  IN  MANY  COUNTRIES 

WHO  HAVE  GENEROUSLY  ASSUMED 
RESPONSIBILITY  FOR  THE  AUTHORSHIP  OF 

PATRICIA  BRENT,  SPINSTER 

THIS  BOOK  IS  DEDICATED  BY 

THE  AUTHOR 


S133491 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  THE  GIRL  AT  THE  WINDOW    .       .       .  ,.  1 1 

II  A  QUESTION  OF  IDENTITY       .       .       ..  .  31 

III  WHAT  THE  BUTLER  TOLD      .       .,      ...  .  45 

IV  THE  VICAR  DECIDES  TO  ACT    .       .       ..  .  56 
V  LITTLE  BILSTEAD  RECEIVES  A  SHOCK      .  .  70 

VI  THE  STRANGENESS  OF  MARJORIE    .       .  .84 

VII  LITTLE  BILSTEAD  SITS  IN  JUDGMENT      .  .  103 

VIII  ERIC  STANNARD  PROMISES  SUPPORT      *  .  118 

IX  Miss  LIPSCOMBE  DECIDES  ON  NEUTRALITY  .  130 

X  SMITH  ACQUIRES  REACH-ME-DOWNS     .  .  140 

XI  MR.  TASSELL  Is  SURPRISED     .       .       .  .151 

XII  LITTLE  BILSTEAD  GOES  TO  CHURCH     .  .  163 

XIII  NERO  IN  DISGRACE ,.176 

XIV  SMITH  BECOMES  A  POPULAR  HERO  .     .  .  188 
XV  A  VILLAGE  DIVIDED  AGAINST  ITSELF      •„  ,.  217 

XVI  P.C.  POSTLE  ASSUMES  His  UNIFORM     .  .  233 

XVII  MR.  GADGETT  PAYS  A  CALL    .       .      ..  .  241 

XVIII  ERIC  PLAYS  A  PART  ....       .  '.  260 

XIX  SIR  JOHN  HILDRETH  INSERTS  AN  ADVERTISE- 
MENT           275 

XX  LITTLE  BILSTEAD  ACHES  WTTH  DRAMA  .  286 


viii  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGZ 

XXI  MARJORIE  HEARS  THE  NEWS  ....  305 

XXII  THE  UNMASKING  OF  SMITH    .       .       .       ..  315 

XXIII  MR.  GADGETT  TELLS  THE  TRUTH  .       .       .  326 

XXIV  ERIC  PRONOUNCES  IT  SPIF  .     .       .       ...  337 


THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 


THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

CHAPTER  I 

THE  GIRL  AT  THE  WINDOW 

"ALL  change!" 

r\        The  station-master  was  weary  of  the  phrase. 
He  had  shouted  it,  murmured  it,  purred  it,  and 
threatened  with  it,  until  he  felt  it  the  most  odious 
combination  of  words  the  language  contained. 

"All  change,  sir!"  he  repeated  irritably,  as  the  pas- 
senger for  whose  benefit  he  had  made  the  statement 
showed  no  sign  of  movement.  "Strike  begins  at  ten," 
he  added. 

"But  it's  not  ten  yet,"  smiled  the  young  man,  as  he 
glanced  at  his  wrist-watch. 

"There  won't  be  time  to  get  on  to  Upper  Saxton," 
was  the  reply.  "We've  had  instructions  to  warn  all 
passengers  that  trains  may  be  left  derelict  at  ten 
o'clock." 

"Anyway,  I  think  I'll  chance  it,"  was  the  imperturb- 
able reply,  and  the  fair-haired  passenger  with  the  smil- 
ing blue  eyes  proceeded  to  light  a  cigarette. 

"Well,  sir,  I've  warned  you,"  said  the  station-master, 
with  the  air  of  a  man  who  wishes  to  clear  himself  of 
all  responsibility. 

"You  most  certainly  have,"  agreed  the  passenger, 
as  he  dropped  the  match  upon  the  carpeted  floor  of 

11 


12  THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

the  first-class  compartment,  and  put  his  foot  upon  it. 

The  station-master  had  promised  to  be  home  by 
nine  o'clock  to  a  stewed-steak-and-onion  supper,  a  dish 
dear  to  his  heart,  and  now  he  had  been  delayed  nearly 
an  hour  by  this  miserable  business  of  trying  to  explain 
to  congenital  idiots  that  if  they  persisted  in  their 
folly  they  would,  in  all  probability,  be  left  stranded, 
and  that  it  was  no  use  threatening  him  with  legal  pro- 
ceedings. In  return  they  had  done  nothing  but  pester 
him  with  their  ridiculous  questions  as  to  what  the  Com- 
pany meant  to  do.  Could  he  recommend  a  good  hotel? 
Where  could  a  motor-car  be  obtained? 

He  banged-to  the  door  viciously.  He  hated  strikes, 
he  hated  trade  unions,  he  hated  railways — he  hated 
everything  connected  with  locomotion.  It  was  only 
from  sheer  lack  of  inspiration  that  he  did  not  curse 
the  day  that  gave  to  the  world  George  Stephenson. 

"Right,  sir?"  queried  the  guard,  his  whistle  lifted 
towards  his  lips. 

"Right!"  echoed  the  station-master.  "One  passen- 
ger won't  get  out,"  he  added,  and  he  waved  his  hand 
with  the  air  of  a  Pontius  Pilate  repudiating  all  responsi- 
bility for  the  folly  of  others.  He  was  wondering  what, 
in  the  natural  order  of  things,  would  be  the  effect  of 
half-an-hour's  delay  upon  stewed-steak-and-onions. 

There  was  a  shrill  whistle,  a  green  light  described 
an  arc-like  movement,  and  the  station-master  turned  to 
escape  from  a  fiery-faced  little  man  with  an  eye  like 
a  fish  and  a  moustache  like  a  walrus.  On  his  lips  the 
station-master  saw  imbecile  questions  framing  them- 
selves. 

"Why  didn't  that  gentleman  get — " 

The  station-master  fled.  Realisation  had  suddenly 
come  to  him  that  every  passenger  who  had  alighted 


THE  GIRL  AT  THE  WINDOW  13 

from  the  train  at  his  suggestion  would  inevitably  ask 
the  same  question. 

As  the  train  gathered  speed,  the  solitary  passenger 
found  himself  wondering  whether  or  no  he  had  been 
wise  in  disregarding  the  advice  officially  tendered. 
There  was  something  about  the  station-master,  he  de- 
cided, that  had  irritated  him.  He  disliked  taking  ad- 
vice from  men  who,  because  they  were  fair,  spared  the 
use  of  a  razor.  It  was  almost  as  bad  as  not  washing 
your  neck  because  you  are  addicted  to  high  collars. 

He  had  been  warned  at  Liverpool  Street  that  the 
strike  would  begin  at  ten  o'clock,  and  that  it  was 
more  than  doubtful  if  the  train  would  get  through  to 
Norwich,  its  destination.  Anxious  and  misguided  offi- 
cials even  refused  to  book  beyond  Upper  Saxton,  where 
they  were  due  at  9.58;  but  the  train  was  late,  and 
on  arrival  at  Bittleborough  the  station-master  had  be- 
come almost  hysterical  in  his  efforts  to  thwart  the 
N.U.R.,  which  he  hated. 

Arguing  that  the  leaving  of  trains  derelict  was 
against  all  precedent,  and  anxious  to  get  on  to  Cromer, 
where  the  Grand  Garden  Hotel  had  a  room  booked 
for  "James  Smith,  Esq.,"  the  passenger  had  decided  to 
carry  on.  Once  at  Norwich,  he  knew  he  could  get  a 
car,  or  a  taxicab,  to  run  him  to  his  destination. 

Now  ^that  he  was  committed  to  the  adventure,  he 
found  himself  curious  to  see  what  actually  would  hap- 
pen at  ten  o'clock.  At  least  he  could  sleep  in  the  first- 
class  compartment  he  occupied.  He  had  known  less 
comfortable  quarters  in  France,  during  the  Somme 
battles  for  instance. 

"James  Smith!"  How  familiar  the  old  name  had 
seemed  as  he  added  it  to  the  telegraph  form.  "Private 
James  Smith."  Why  had  he  given  the  name  to  the 


14  THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

recruiting  officer  on  that  August  morning  seven  years 
before?  He  had  often  wondered.  He  had  no  thought 
of  enlisting  other  than  under  his  own  name;  but  some- 
how when  the  moment  came,  "Darrell  Hildreth"  had 
seemed  to  cry  aloud  for  a  commission,  and  that  was 
just  what  he  was  most  anxious  to  avoid.  He  was  de- 
termined to  do  his  bit  in  the  ranks;  yet,  four-and-a- 
half  years  later,  he  had  returned  to  private  life  as 
Lieutenant-Colonel  Darrell  Hildreth,  D.S.O.,  M.C, 
M.M. 

He  smiled  a  little  grimly  at  the  recollection. 

Those  five  years  had  meant  something  more  than  a 
temporary  military  rank,  and  a  string  of  initials  after 
his  name.  They  had  somehow  or  other  changed  things, 
just  how  he  had  never  been  able  quite  to  decide.  Some 
new  and  strange  influence  seemed  to  have  asserted 
itself.  His  perceptions  had  become  keener,  his  judg- 
ments more  critical,  his  general  outlook  more  fatalistic. 

He  had  returned  to  his  old  niche;  but  somehow  it 
did  not  seem  to  be  his.  He  had  gone  away  one  of 
England's  "young  barbarians,"  as  Matthew  Arnold  ex- 
pressed it,  and  he  had  returned — what? 

What  had  happened  "out  there"  to  bring  about  such 
a  change?  There  had  been  killing,  suffering  and — 
yes;  perhaps  that  was  it — brotherhood.  Class  differ- 
ences had  been  brushed  aside.  The  man  who  at  home 
would  have  touched  a  respectful  cap  to  him,  had 
called  him  "chum"  or  "matey,"  had  spoken  of  his 
mother  and  family,  of  his  own  feelings.  There  had 
been  no  attempt  to  disguise  emotion.  Strong  men  had 
wept,  big  enough  of  heart  not  to  feel  ashamed.  There 
had  been  self-sacrifice,  too,  and  sentiment,  and  a  be- 
lief in  God. 

Suddenly   a   sort   of   time-machine  had   thrust   him 


THE  GIRL  AT  THE  WINDOW  15 

back  five  years  into  an  environment  that  no  longer 
fitted. 

By  Jove !  They  were  humming  along  at  a  spanking 
pace,  was  his  thought  as  he  glanced  out  of  the  window 
at^  the  flying  hedges  and  trees,  Direct  Action  or  no 
Direct  Action. 

Yes,  he  now  saw  things  that  hitherto  had  evaded 
him,  among  others  those  little  crinkles  that  manifested 
themselves  in  Vera  Truscombe's  nose  when  she 
laughed.  Hitherto  she  had  seemed  to  him  charming, 
a  typical  healthy-minded  English  girl,  good-looking, 
well-born,  popular,  everything  she  should  be,  in  fact; 
and  all  the  time  her  nose  had  crinkled  and  he  had 
not  seen  it. 

In  a  vague  way  he  had  known  that  his  uncle  was 
set  upon  joining-up  the  Hildreth  and  Truscombe  es- 
tates, and  when  Sir  John  Hildreth,  ninth  baronet,  set 
his  mind  upon  a  thing,  it  invariably  meant  either  the 
thing  became  an  accomplished  fact,  or  as  an  alternative, 
that  there  was  a  series  of  violent  explosions. 

"What  the  devil  does  her  nose  matter?"  his  uncle 
had  shouted  that  day  in  the  library  at  Hildreth  Hall, 
when  he  heard  of  the  impending  rupture  of  his  plans, 
and  his  nephew  had  found  it  utterlv  impossible  to 
explain  that  those  crinkles  in  Vera  Truscombe's  nose 
were  to  him  what  the  contemptible  little  army  had 
proved  to  the  Germans,  an  insurmountable  obstacle. 

With  the  assurance  of  a  confirmed  bachelor,  Sir 
John  had  plunged  into  his  match-making  schemes  with- 
out even  consulting  his  sister,  Mrs.  Compton-Stacey, 
whose  sound  commonsense  and  tact  had  rescued  him 
from  many  an  awkward  situation  into  which  his  im- 
pulsive egotism  had  plunged  him. 

"Isn't  he  my  heir?"  Sir  John  had  thundered. 


16  THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

"To  the  title  and  estates,  yes,"  she  had  replied 
calmly;  "but  not  to  your  taste  in  women." 

"He's  a  damned  ungrateful  young  scoundrel!" 

The  words  had  been  rapped  out  with  all  the  force  of 
Sir  John's  volcanic  nature.  His  short  white  moustache 
had  bristled,  his  naturally  rubicund  complexion  had 
taken  on  a  deeper  hue,  as  it  always  did  when  he  was 
angry. 

In  a  vague  way  the  little  red-faced  passenger  on  the 
platform  had  reminded  the  adventurous  passenger  of 
his  uncle. 

"He's  as  bad  as  that  infernal  fellow  Peters!"  Sir 
John  had  exploded.  Sooner  or  later  he  always  dragged 
in  the  name  of  his  late  butler,  with  whom  the  growing 
of  a  moustache  had  been  the  cause  of  his  feudal  undo- 
ing. At  the  first  sound  of  war  Peters  had  enlisted, 
just  how  he  had  got  his  fifteen  stone  past  the  critical 
eye  of  the  doctor  into  the  army,  no  one  knew.  Sir 
John  Hildreth  was  furious  at  losing  the  best  butler 
he  had  ever  known,  and  had  called  it  "damned  unnec- 
essary." 

When,  four-and-a-half  years  later,  Peters  had 
stepped  from  behind  that  veil  of  mystery  known  as 
Demobilisation  into  the  bright  glare  of  civilian  life, 
plus  a  henna-coloured  moustache  of  gigantic  propor- 
tions, the  irate  baronet  had  become  almost  apoplectic 
with  rage. 

"What  the  devil  do  you  mean  by  it,  Peters?"  he  had 
exploded.  "Go  and  shave  that  damned  thing  off  at 
once." 

During  his  years  in  the  army,  Peters  had  discovered 
in  himself  a  new  and  hitherto  unsuspected  capacity. 
Nature  had  endowed  him  with  the  ability  to  grow  a 


THE  GIRL  AT  THE  WINDOW  17 

moustache  of  exactly  the  same  curve  and  tint  as  that 
of  Lord  Kitchener — only  more  so. 

Sir  John  had  stormed  and  sworn,  damned  the  war, 
execrated  all  moustaches  as  unhygienic  and  obscene 
("damned  filthy"  was  his  phrase)  ;  but  Peters  remained 
obdurate,  and  he  had  given  notice. 

At  this  Sir  John  had  sworn  the  more.  He  vowed 
that  the  very  sight  of  the  auburn  wealth  upon  Peters' 
upper  lip  made  all  thought  of  soup  revolting  to  him. 
He  reminded  Peters  of  his  fifteen  years'  service  with 
the  Hildreths,  he  offered  to  raise  his  wages,  and  ended 
by  telling  him  to  go  to  hell. 

Peters  had  temporised  by  going  to  Haslemere,  where 
he  possessed  a  sister  in  the  Trade. 

Darrell  Hildreth  had  suggested  that  his  uncle  should 
advertise  for  a  modern  Delilah,  which  had  resulted  in 
an  even  greater  flow  of  eloquence  and  profanity  from 
Sir  John,  who  had  failed  to  catch  the  allusion,  a  cir- 
cumstance that  increased  his  annoyance. 

Realising  that  a  butler  with  an  auburn  moustache 
of  gigantic  proportions  would  be  like  a  fox  terrier 
with  an  unbitten  tail,  Peters  had  subsequently  accepted 
service  as  a  gentleman's  gentleman  with  the  nephew 
and  heir,  a  post  that  would  give  him  greatar  liberty 
to  cultivate  his  moustache  and  indulge  his  passion  for 
motor-cycling. 

As  it  began  to  dawn  upon  Sir  John  that  he  was  in 
danger  of  a  second  defeat,  he  had  proceeded  to  explode 
like  the  back-firing  of  a  high-power  racing  car.  Finally 
he  had  delivered  an  ultimatum  to  his  nephew.  It  was 
either  marriage  with  Vera  Truscombe,  or  being  cut 
off  with  a  shilling. 

Smith  could  almost  hear  the  final  terrific  explosion 


18  THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

which  had  taken  place  when  he  had  made  it  clear 
that  he  could  not  accept  his  uncle's  matrimonial  views. 

He  had  been  told  to  go  to  the  devil,  and  go  pseudony- 
mously,  in  other  words  he  was  told  not  to  drag  the 
ancient  name  of  Hildreth  into  the  mire. 

He  had  striven  to  explain  to  his  uncle  that  the  war 
had  made  a  difference,  only  to  be  told  that  any  fool 
could  see  that  by  the  Income  Tax. 

The  upshot  of  the  interview  was  that  he  had  vowed 
to  drop  the  family  name,  and  never  use  it  again  with- 
out his  uncle's  permission,  whereat  Sir  John  had 
vociferated  that  he  was  "a  damned  ungrateful  young 
puppy,"  and  had  shot  out  of  the  library  like  a  howitzer 
shell. 

Within  the  next  hour  he  had  discharged  his  chauffeur, 
the  head-gardener,  and  a  frightened  housemaid,  whom 
he  encountered  in  a  corridor. 

Smith  smiled  at  the  thought  of  the  periodical  dis- 
charges to  which  the  domestics  at  Hildreth  Hall  were 
subject.  No  one  ever  took  them  seriously.  Sir  John 
had  been  known  to  discharge  the  same  man  half-a- 
dozen  times  in  one  week. 

From  the  scene  at  Hildreth  Hall,  Smith's  thoughts 
travelled  to  another  scene  at  his  own  chambers  in 
Jermyn  Street.  It  had  been  less  dramatic;  but  every 
whit  as  interesting.  Peters  had — 

Suddenly  he  glanced  at  his  wrist-watch.  The  hands 
pointed  to  five  minutes  to  ten.  In  a  flash  Sir  John, 
Peters'  moustache  and  Vera  Truscombe's  nose  had  dis- 
appeared. The  moment  of  drama  was  approaching. 
His  eyes  remained  fixed  upon  the  white  dial  of  his 
watch.  Would  Direct  Action  triumph?  If  it  did  he 
would  find  himself  in  the  very  devil  of  a  hole. 


THE  GIRL  AT  THE  WINDOW  19 

As  the  hands  crept  on,  he  found  himself  experiencing 
a  pleasant  thrill  of  excitement.  He  realised  the  feel- 
ings of  the  man  in  a  film  he  had  once  seen  who,  bound 
to  a  chair,  watched  a  candle  slowly  burn  down  to  the 
point  when  it  would  ignite  a  fuse  attached  to  a  hun- 
dredweight of  High  Explosive  immediately  beneath 
him. 

Ten  o'clock  came;  still  the  train  pounded  on  at  a 
good  forty  miles  an  hour.  One  minute,  two  minutes, 
three  minutes  passed.  Smith  began  to  congratulate 
himself  upon  his  foresight.  He  was  conscious  of  a  feel- 
ing of  superiority  over  the  passengers  who  had  been  so 
easily  intimidated  into  relinquishing  their  journey. 

Such  a  triumph  of  mind  over  Direct  Action  was  a 
thing  worthy  of  another  cigarette,  he  decided.  Select- 
ing one  he  struck  a  match.  As  he  did  so,  there  was  a 
sudden  and  violent  grinding  of  brakes,  and  the  train 
began  to  lose  speed. 

In  a  flash  he  remembered  that  at  Liverpool  Street 
his  watch  had  been  four-and-a-half  minutes  fast. 

He  laughed,  and  the  neglected  match  burned  his 
fingers. 

"Damn!" 

He  struck  another  match,  lit  the  cigarette  and,  with 
a  quickening  interest,  rose  and  thrust  his  head  and 
shoulders  out  of  the  carriage-window. 

In  the  gathering  dusk,  little  was  to  be  seen  beyond 
a  curve  of  dingy  railway-carriages.  There  was  no 
signal  in  sight,  no  township  or  village,  in  fact  nothing 
but  a  flat  landscape,  over  which  heavy  rain-clouds  were 
hurrying,  as  if  anxious  to  get  home  before  night  finally 
closed  in. 

The  head  of  the  guard  appeared  at  the  rear  of  the 


20  THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

train.  He  waved  his  hand  and  appeared  to  shout 
something  which  Smith  could  not  hear  above  the  noise 
of  the  brakes.  Presently  the  man  swung  himself  out 
upon  the  footboard,  where  he  stood  with  a  leg  and 
arm  extended,  looking  like  some  mechanical  figure  fixed 
to  the  side  of  the  train. 

As  they  jerked  to  a  standstill,  the  guard  dropped 
to  the  permanent  way,  and  approached  the  carriage 
from  the  window  of  which  Smith  leaned,  an  interested 
spectator  of  Direct  Action  in  process  of  application. 

"We're  not  going  any  further,"  said  the  guard. 

Smith  regarded  him  curiously. 

"I'm  going  on  to  Norwich  and  eventually  to 
Cromer,"  he  said,  with  an  assurance  he  was  far  from 
feeling. 

"I'm  afraid  you  can't,  sir,"  said  the  guard  civilly. 
He  had  now  reached  a  point  immediately  beneath 
Smith.  "The  strike's  begun." 

Smith  did  not  reply  immediately.  The  news  re- 
quired digesting. 

"They  warned  you  at  Bittleborough." 

"But  what's  going  to  happen  to  you?"  queried 
Smith.  "Camping-out  here  until  the  strike's  all  over?" 

"We  shall  run  the  train  on  to  the  Upper  Saxton 
siding,  and  go  home." 

"I  see." 

"If  you'll  hand  down  your  luggage,  sir,"  said  the 
guard,  his  professional  instinct  triumphing  over  his 
trade  unionism. 

"I  think  I'll  go  on  with  you  to  Upper  Saxton, 
wherever  that  may  be,"  said  Smith,  with  the  air  of  a 
man  who  has  just  solved  a  difficult  problem. 

"I'm  afraid  you  can't,  sir,"  was  the  reply,  uttered 


THE  GIRL  AT  THE  WINDOW  21 

with  just  a  tinge  of  impatience.  "The  strike's  begun. 
It's  against  orders  to  carry  passengers  after  ten 
o'clock." 

"Then  consider  me  a  member  of  your  union,"  smiled 
Smith.  "I'll  pay  the  subscription  now."  He  drew 
from  his  pocket  a  letter-case,  and  proceeded  to  extract 
a  one-pound  note. 

"Chaaaaaaaaaarley !"  came  a  voice  from  the  engine. 
"Wot  the  'ell  are  you  doin',  bor?  Stoppin'  'ere  all 
night?" 

The  guard  waved  his  hand  in  acknowledgment  of 
the  remark;  but  without  diverting  his  gaze  from  the 
note  in  Smith's  hand. 

"It  can't  be  done,  sir,"  he  said,  regretfully.  "Orders 
are  orders.  You'll  have  to  get  down,  sir." 

"But  your  quarrel  isn't  with  the  passengers,  it's  with 
the  Company,"  suggested  Smith. 

"If  we  didn't  do  something,  the  passengers  wouldn't 
know  there's  a  strike  on." 

"Oh!  little  things  like  that  are  bound  to  get  about," 
said  Smith  pleasantly,  as  he  returned  the  note  to  his 
case,  and  the  case  to  his  pocket. 

The  guard  turned  aside  with  a  sigh,  and  Smith  lifted 
down  his  suit-case  and  gathered  up  his  raincoat.  Open- 
ing the  door  of  the  carriage,  he  dropped  down  beside 
the  guard,  just  as  a  further  shout  from  the  engine, 
again  invoking  the  speaker's  hereafter,  reminded  his 
comrade  that  he  was  no  longer  a  servant  of  the 
public. 

"Well,  perhaps  you're  right,  guard.  It  will  be  quite 
a  novel  experience,  camping-out  on  the  up-track." 

With  a  shrill  on  his  whistle  and  a  wave  of  his  arm, 
the  guard  swung  himself  up  on  to  the  footboard, 


22  THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

and  proceeded  to  haul  himself  along  the  carriages, 
towards  his  own  van. 

"I'm  sorry,  sir,"  he  called  down  to  Smith,  a  few 
seconds  later  as  he  was  drawn  past.  "I  would  have 
done  it  if  I  could." 

"Which  means,"  muttered  Smith,  "that  the  instinc- 
tive venality  of  railway-guards  remains  unimpaired  by 
any  action,  direct  or  otherwise." 

Slowly  the  train  pushed  its  way  into  the  night,  its 
tail-light  gleaming  evilly  at  the  stranded  traveller 
marooned  upon  the  up-track. 

Smith  watched  the  red  eye  turn  to  pink,  the  pink 
to  a  blur,  which  finally  became  absorbed  in  the  grey 
wall  of  the  landscape. 

The  rumble  of  the  train  still  crescendoed  back  to 
him,  accentuated  by  the  low-lying  clouds.  When  that 
in  turn  ceased,  he  became  conscious  of  a  strange  sense 
of  loneliness.  From  where  he  stood,  he  commanded 
a  limited  view;  but  nowhere  could  he  detach  from  the 
varying  degrees  of  shadow  anything  that  was  definitely 
suggestive  of  a  house. 

A  spot  of  rain  on  the  back  of  his  hand  gave  warning 
that  it  was  time  to  think  of  shelter  for  the  night.  He 
glanced  up  at  the  clouds,  which  appeared  desirous  of 
showing  how  close  they  could  get  to  the  earth  without 
actually  touching  it.  Somewhere  in  the  distance  an 
owl  hooted  its  challenge  to  the  oncoming  night.  "Di- 
rect Action,"  he  muttered,  as  he  picked  up  his  suit-case 
and  clambered  down  the  embankment,  "can  be  the  very 
devil." 

There  seemed  nothing  to  do  but  to  walk  on  until 
he  struck  some  habitation,  where  he  might  either  en- 
quire the  way  to  an  inn,  or  else  obtain  shelter  until 


THE  GIRL  AT  THE  WINDOW  23 

morning.  Instinctively  he  turned  to  the  west,  where 
a  faint  grey  light  still  lingered.  It  seemed  less  inhos- 
pitable than  the  rest  of  the  landscape. 

The  pervading  flatness  of  the  countryside  made  it 
impossible  to  identify  those  hedges  which  bordered 
roads.  The  landscape  gave  the  impression  of  being 
as  trackless  as  the  prairie,  and  as  destitute  of  popu- 
lation as  the  Sahara  itself. 

Occasionally  some  unseen  beast,  wrapped  to  the 
horns  in  the  greyness  of  evening,  would  send  forth  a 
subdued  low  of  foreboding;  but  no  other  sound  broke 
the  stillness. 

As  the  last  flicker  of  grey  vanished  from  the  west, 
the  rain  began  to  fall,  as  if  it  had  held  back  only  in 
deference  to  the  departing  day. 

Putting  down  his  suit-case  by  a  gate  giving  access 
to  a  field  of  what  looked  like  barley,  Smith  struggled 
into  his  coat.  A  few  minutes  later,  he  was  trudging 
against  a  slant  of  wetness  that  left  him  in  no  doubt 
as  to  its  determination  to  soak  him  to  the  skin. 

With  head  down  and  shoulders  hunched,  he  con- 
tinued on  his  way,  conscious  of  only  two  things;  that 
the  man  who  had  labelled  his  coat  "rain-proof"  was 
a  liar,  and  that  Direct  Action  was  the  invention  of 
Satan  himself. 

At  the  end  of  half-an-hour's  steady  plodding,  he 
had  dropped  Direct  Action  and  found  himself  concen- 
trating, with  all  the  misanthropy  of  which  he  was  pos- 
sessed, upon  the  maker  and  the  vendor  of  his  coat. 

At  length  a  gate  brought  him  quite  unexpectedly 
to  a  promising-looking  road.  Even  in  this  land  of 
apparent  troglodytes,  there  must  be  some  progressive 
spirits  who  lived  above  ground. 


24,  THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

As  if  Fate  had  wearied  of  the  game,  and  had  de- 
cided to  throw  in  her  hand,  a  few  minutes  later  Smith 
found  himself  standing  before  a  pair  of  wrought-iron 
gates,  opening  on  to  what  appeared  to  be  a  drive. 

He  tried  them ;  they  were  locked.  He  struck  a  match 
— the  wind  blew  it  out.  He  struck  another,  a  spot 
of  rain  extinguished  it.  After  exhausting  some  half- 
a-dozen  matches  and  all  his  patience,  he  decided  to 
make  an  effort  to  scale  either  the  gates  or  the  wall 
visible  on  either  side.  In  all  probability  this  was  the 
only  house  for  miles  round. 

He  realised  the  risk  he  was  running.  He  might 
be  shot,  or  arrested,  or  even  torn  by  dogs;  but  any- 
thing would  be  preferable  to  his  present  intolerable 
condition.  He  had  already  roundly  cursed  the  station- 
master  for  not  possessing  a  more  compelling  person- 
ality. 

To  ensure  greater  freedom  of  movement,  he  re- 
moved his  rain-coat  and  threaded  one  of  the  sleeves 
through  the  handle  of  his  suit-case.  He  then  tied  the 
two  sleeves  round  his  neck,  and  swung  the  case  behind 
him.  The  sensation  of  being  half-choked  was  not 
pleasant. 

Grasping  the  iron-work  of  the  gate,  he  proceeded 
to  haul  himself  up.  In  the  course  of  the  next  few 
minutes,  he  realised  that  the  high  priests  of  obstacle- 
races  had  proved  themselves  lacking  in  imagination. 
To  climb  a  high  gate  in  drenched  garments,  with  a 
suit-case  tied  to  your  back  by  the  sleeves  of  a  rain-coat, 
epitomised  a  veritable  Grand  National  of  obstacles. 

When  he  eventually  descended  on  the  inner  side  of 
the  gate,  he  was  conscious  that  the  front  of  his  right 
trouser  leg  was  ripped  from  knee  to  hip,  two  buttons 


THE  GIRL  AT  THE  WINDOW  25 

had  been  torn  from  his  coat,  together  with  about  two 
square  inches  of  material.  He  had  dropped  his  hat 
on  the  road  side  of  the  wall,  and  the  rain-coat  had 
caught  on  a  spike,  leaving  a  considerable  section  of  the 
skirt  fluttering  somewhere  between  heaven  and  earth. 
In  short,  he  had  left  about  those  gates  sufficient 
apparel  to  enable  a  really  intelligent  detective  to  de- 
duce both  the  act  and  the  gender  of  the  perpetrator. 
Allowing  the  suit-case  to  remain  strung  behind  him, 
Smith  began  to  explore  what  was  obviously  the  drive 
belonging  to  a  residence  of  some  size.  A  few  yards 
up  he  was  able  to  identify  the  porter's  lodge. 

He  paused  irresolutely,  and  glanced  at  his  wrist- 
watch.  The  luminous  hands  pointed  to  five  minutes 
to  eleven.  Should  he  make  his  appeal  to  this  unknown 
Horatius,  or  proceed  to  the  house  itself? 

Arguing  that  a  servant  was  not  likely  to  manifest 
hospitable  tendencies  to  a  wayfarer  appearing  before 
him  minus  a  hat,  two  buttons  from  his  coat,  a  strip 
of  his  trousers  and  about  a  third  of  his  rain-coat,  he 
decided  to  make  for  the  house  and  risk  the  possibility 
of  being  treed  by  a  dog. 

It  was  foolish  to  look  on  the  dark  side  of  the  ad- 
venture. The  owner  might  possibly  prove  to  be  an 
eccentric,  who  would  see  nothing  unusual  in  one  man 
scaling  another's  gate  after  dark,  in  order  to  offer 
to  spend  the  night  with  him.  The  place  might  even 
turn  out  to  be  a  private  asylum,  which  would  render 
explanations  unnecessary.  If  it  were  a  ladies'  school, 
his  act  would  appear  in  the  light  of  romance.  He 
would,  in  all  probability,  be  handed  over  to  the  gar- 
dener, and  in  the  morning  become  the  hero  of  a  hun- 
dred pig-tailed  hearts. 


26  THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

There  was  always  the  possibility  of  his  host-to-be 
turning  out  to  be  a  bad  temper  and  a  good  shot,  in 
which  case  the  responsibility  for  the  explanation  would 
devolve  upon  him.  It  was  all  very  interesting;  still 
the  dark,  tree-bordered  drive  was  devilishly  long,  and 
the  rain  on  his  uncovered  head  infernally  wet,  and  that 
suit-case  had  got  in  a  real  strangle-hold. 

Just  at  the  point  when  he  had  decided  that  the 
drive  was  bewitched  and,  like  Vanderdecken's  efforts 
to  round  the  Horn,  continued  for  ever,  Smith  suddenly 
stopped  dead.  He  blinked  several  times,  as  if  to  make 
certain  that  he  really  were  awake.  The  strain  of  his 
suit-case,  however,  reassured  him. 

There,  a  few  yards  ahead,  was  a  girl  at  a  window, 
apparently  occupied  in  gazing  down  at  him,  whether 
in  sorrow  or  in  anger  he  could  not  say.  He  was  pre- 
pared to  swear  that  she  had  not  been  there  five  sec- 
onds before.  She  seemed  suddenly  to  appear  from 
nowhere,  like  rain  at  Henley  Regatta. 

She  must  have  drawn  back  a  curtain,  or  suddenly 
switched  on  a  light;  but  whatever  it  was,  she  was  now 
looking  out  into  the  night,  possibly  at  him.  The  light 
behind  threw  out  her  slim  figure  in  strong  silhouette. 
She  was  of  medium  height,  he  noticed,  and  was  dressed 
in  green.  She — 

Then  the  picture  was  blotted-out,  leaving  him  gaz- 
ing at  a  blank  of  darkness,  and  speculating  as  to 
whether  or  no  there  were  sufficient  left  of  the  skirts 
of  his  rain-coat  to  hide  the  rent  in  his  trousers. 

Approaching  the  house  warily,  he  mounted  the  steps 
and  felt  about  for  a  bell  with  which  to  announce  his 
presence.  Nowhere  could  he  find  anything  suggestive 
of  how  a  guest  was  to  apprise  the  occupants  of  his 


THE  GIRL  AT  THE  WINDOW  27 

arrival.  It  required  the  expenditure  of  two  matches 
before  he  saw  the  handsome  wrought-iron  bell-pull 
on  his  right. 

Without  hesitation,  he  tugged  at  it,  the  strain  of 
the  suit-case  was  becoming  intolerable.  He  thought 
he  detected  the  distant  whirr  of  an  electric-bell. 

As  he  waited  for  his  summons  to  be  answered,  he 
found  himself  speculating  as  to  the  identity  of  the  girl 
at  the  window.  Was  she  the  mistress,  or  the  daughter 
of  the  house?  Was  she  beautiful,  or  did  her  nose 
crinkle  when  she  laughed?  Would  she  realise  the 
humour  of  the  situation,  or  would  she  see  in  him 
only  a  vagrant  who  had  audaciously  climbed  the  an- 
cestral gates  to  arouse  the  household  at  dead  of  night? 
Possibly  she  kept  a  covey  of  hungry  hounds,  which 
were  automatically  loosed  at  the  first  alarm.  For  one 
thing  he  was  thankful,  it  would  not  be  she  who  would 
open  the  door.  Should  she  appear  subsequently,  there 
would  in  all  probability  be  some  hospitable  chair  or 
table  behind  which  he  could  take  cover,  and  thus  hide 
the  deficiencies  of  his  clothing. 

Suddenly  he  became  conscious  of  the  grotesque  fig- 
ure he  must  present  with  a  suit-case  tied  to  his  back 
by  the  saturated  remnants  of  a  rain-coat,  which  really 
was  not  a  rain-coat  at  all;  but  a  vivid,  palpitating 
lie,  which  Direct  Action  and  Norfolk  weather  had  been 
successful  in  exposing. 

He  essayed  to  undo  the  sleeves  tied  under  his  chin; 
but  they  seemed  reluctant  to  part,  the  tension  coupled 
with  the  rain  had  hardened  the  knot. 

The  sound  of  bolts  being  withdrawn  hastened  his 
movements.  Pulling  his  suit-case  round  to  the  front, 
he  tried  to  slip  the  rain-coat  over  his  head,  and  thus 


28  THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

disembarrass  himself  of  the  two  encumbrances  in  one 
movement.  Something,  however,  had  apparently 
caught;  for  what  remained  of  the  skirts  of  the  tattered 
garment  fell  over  his  eyes,  effectually  blinding  him 
to  anything  that  might  result  from  his  summons. 

He  struggled  to  free  his  head,  or  at  least  his  eyes; 
but  the  wretched  garment  seemed  suddenly  to  have 
assumed  the  proportions  of  a  marquee. 

The  sounds  in  front  of  him  continued.  From  what 
he  heard  of  the  drawing  of  bolts,  he  decided  that  the 
girl  at  the  window  must  be  in  nightly  fear  of  abduc- 
tion. 

As  he  struggled  with  the  enveloping  folds,  he  be- 
came conscious  that  a  light  had  somewhere  broken  out 
from  the  darkness.  He  could  see  it  indistinctly  through 
the  material  of  the  lying  rain-coat,  with  which  he  was 
unwillingly  playing  at  blind-man's-buff. 

Suddenly  a  tear  manifested  itself  just  in  the  line  of 
his  vision.  The  door  had  been  opened  some  ten  or 
twelve  inches  where  it  was  held  by  a  chain.  Through 
the  slit,  he  saw  the  figure  of  an  old  man,  garbed  in 
a  royal-blue  dressing-gown,  time-worn  and  obviously 
made  for  one  of  slimmer  build,  a  pair  of  carpet  slippers 
and  a  bandana  handkerchief  loosely  twisted  about  his 
neck. 

At  the  sight  of  two  eyes  peering  at  him  from  the 
khaki-coloured  folds  of  the  tattered  rain-coat,  the  old 
man  started  back. 

"I'm  frightfully  sorry,"  apologised  Smith,  in 
muffled  tones,  as  he  continued  to  struggle  with  the 
infernal  thing  that  seemed  determined  to  envelop  him 
for  ever.  "I'm  frightfully  sorry;  but  could  you  pos- 
sibly put  me  up  for  the  night?" 


THE  GIRL  AT  THE  WINDOW  29 

The  expression  on  the  old  man's  face  at  this  unusual 
request  struck  Smith  as  irresistibly  funny,  and  he 
laughed.  At  the  same  moment  the  rain-coat  fell  away 
from  him,  carried  to  the  ground  by  the  weight  of  the 
suit-case. 

"Mr.  Alfred!" 

The  old  man  whispered  the  words  as  if  afraid  of 
being  overheard.  In  his  eyes  was  a  look,  half  of  fear, 
half  of  incredulity. 

"Mr.  Alfred!"  he  repeated,  as  his  trembling  fingers 
began  to  fumble  with  the  chain  on  which  the  door 
was  held.  A  moment  later  it  was  opened  to  its  widest 
extent.  Smith  stepped  across  the  threshold,  tripped 
over  the  suit-case  and  lurched  forward.  As  he  fell 
he  clutched  wildly  at  the  dingy  dressing-gown,  got  the 
wearer  round  the  knees,  and  brought  him  down  in 
real  Rugby  style. 

A  moment  later  the  two  men  were  sitting  toe  to 
toe,  gazing  into  one  another's  surprised  eyes.  The 
dressing-gown  had  parted  up  to  the  knees,  exposing 
grey  worsted  under-wear,  and  what  looked  like  the 
tails  of  a  nightshirt. 

Throwing  back  his  head,  Smith  laughed.  The  ex- 
pression on  the  old  man's  face,  suggestive  of  a  medley 
of  emotions,  coupled  with  the  wild  absurdity  of  the 
adventure,  rendered  him  almost  hysterical.  The  more 
he  looked  at  the  quaint  figure  opposite,  the  more  ridic- 
ulous the  thing  appeared. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Willis?"  enquired  a  quiet 
and  perfectly  inflected  voice. 

Srmth  looked  up,  sobered  as  if  by  magic.  There, 
standing  at  the  head  of  the  stairs  and  looking  gravely 
down  at  them,  as  if  accustomed  to  seeing  two  men 


30  THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

in  nondescript  garments  sitting  on  the  hall-mat  late 
at  night,  was  the  girl  he  had  seen  at  the  window. 

The  question  seemed  to  break  the  spell.  The  butler 
scrambled  awkwardly  to  his  feet,  hastily  wrapping  the 
dressing-gown  about  him,  whilst  Smith  rose  behind 
the  remains  of  the  rain-coat,  which  he  modestly  draped 
over  the  tear  in  his  trouser  leg. 

"It's  Mr.  Alfred  come  back,  Miss  Marjorie,"  whis- 
pered the  old  man  hoarsely  and,  clutching  Smith  by 
the  coat-sleeve,  he  broke  down  and  sobbed  like  a  child. 

"Great  Gulliver!"  cried  Smith,  and  in  his  astonish- 
ment he  dropped  the  tattered  remnants  of  the  rain-coat. 


CHAPTER  II 

A  QUESTION  OF  IDENTITY 

A  he  gazed  down  at  the  bent  figure  of  the  old 
man,    whose    shoulders   were   heaving   convul- 
sively, Smith  realised,  from  the  slight  swaying 
of  his  body,  that  he  was  on  the  verge  of  collapse. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Alfred!"  he  murmured,  as  Smith  placed 
a  steadying  arm  across  his  shoulders.  "How  we've 
all  prayed  for  this  day,"  and  the  tears  coursed  un- 
checked down  his  cheeks. 

Through  Smith's  mind  flooded  a  medley  of  impres- 
sions. He  was  torn  between  a  desire  to  laugh  and  a 
feeling  that  he  wanted  a  glass  of  water  with  which  to 
wash  down  the  lump  in  his  throat.  He  was  acutely 
conscious  of  his  torn  trouser-leg,  which  he  was  unable 
to  cover  up  until  the  butler,  he  was  obviously  the  butler, 
began  to  manifest  signs  of  stiffening  into  a  more  rigid 
position,  after  which  Smith  decided  to  take  cover  be- 
hind a  chair. 

The  whole  affair  brought  back  to  his  mind  a  scene 
from  "The  Silver  King,"  which  he  had  seen  as  a  boy. 

"Please  let  him  sit  down." 

The  girl  had  descended  the  stairs,  and  now  stood 
regarding  the  butler  with  anxious  eyes.  Smith  turned 
to  find  himself  gazing  into  a  pair  of  large  violet  eyes, 
grave  and  steady;  but  capable,  he  felt,  of  breaking 
into  mischievous  light. 

He  moved  closer  to  the  butler,  that  the  dilapidation 
of  his  clothing  might  be  less  obvious. 

31 


32  THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

Turning  Willis  in  the  direction  of  the  nearest  chair, 
Smith  half-led,  half-propelled  him  towards  it,  taking 
short  steps  that  his  right  leg  might  be  in  close  proximity 
to  the  skirts  of  the  dingy  dressing-gown. 

"I'm  so  sorry,  Mr.  Alfred,"  murmured  the  old  man, 
as  he  was  gently  lowered  into  the  chair.  "It  was  a 
shock  and — and  my  heart — I'm  getting  old,  sir,"  he 
added  apologetically,  his  pale  blue  eyes  smiling  weakly 
through  the  tears  with  which  they  were  still  swimming. 

"Keep  quite  still,  Willis,"  said  the  girl,  looking  at 
him  with  grave  concern.  "You  will  feel  better  pres- 
ently." 

By  a  quick  movement  Smith  placed  himself  behind 
the  chair  on  which  the  old  man  sat,  his  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  rain-coat  lying  a  few  feet  away;  but  out  of  reach. 

The  girl  looked  at  him  curiously.  His  sudden  dive 
to  cover  seemed  to  strike  her  as  odd. 

"Oh,  Miss  Marjorie!  What  is  it?  Is  it  a  burglar? 
Is  Mr.  Willis  hurt?" 

Smith  looked  up  suddenly  at  this  new  diversion. 
Coming  down  the  stairs  was  a  bright  pink  dressing- 
gown,  enveloping  a  little  round  woman  with  a  little 
round  face  surmounted  by  iron-grey  hair,  roughly 
bundled  into  a  net. 

She  seemed  in  a  great  hurry  as,  with  both  hands 
gripping  the  banisters,  she  pulled  herself  from  stair 
to  stair  like  a  child.  She  was  so  round  that  Smith 
felt  her  best  chance  of  reaching  the  hall  quickly  would 
have  been  to  bounce  down. 

The  eyes  of  the  three  in  the  hall  were  fixed  upon 
the  quaint  little  figure  descending  the  stairs.  Smith 
began  to  wonder  if  he  were  passing  through  some  new 
manifestation  of  the  Arabian  Nights.  In  all  proba- 


A  QUESTION  OF  IDENTITY  33 

bility  houris  and  dancing-girls,  flute-players  and  negro 
slaves  bearing  great  baskets  of  fruit  would  appear  in 
due  sequence.  The  whole  affair  was  too  ridiculous 
for  an  ordinary  common-place  mind.  Such  things  did 
not  happen  in  well-ordered  Norfolk  mansions  and — 
well,  the  whole  thing  was  utterly  and  egregiously  ab- 
surd. 

A  sudden  movement  from  the  chair  before  him  dis- 
tracted his  attention.  The  butler  still  seemed  unde- 
cided as  to  whether  or  no  he  should  faint. 

A  moment  later  Smith  felt  his  right  arm  clutched 
firmly,  almost  fiercely,  and  he  found  himself  looking 
down  into  a  pair  of  china-blue  eyes  that  gazed  up  at 
him  from  a  round,  cherubic  little  face. 

"Oh,  my  lamb,  my  lamb!"  cried  the  little  creature 
in  the  pink  wrapper,  who,  on  reaching  the  level,  had 
covered  the  distance  between  herself  and  Smith  with 
remarkable  speed.  "You've  come  back  to  us  at  last!" 

"I — I  beg  your  pardon." 

Even  as  he  uttered  the  words,  Smith  was  conscious 
of  their  absurdity. 

"I  knew  you  would  came  back  to  us,  you  poor 
lamb,"  she  cried,  "and,  oh,  look  at  you !"  She  stood 
back  from  him  and  gazed  at  his  torn  clothing.  "Look 
at  your  poor  trousers!" 

His  trousers  were  the  last  things  upon  this  earth  to 
which  Smith  desired  attention  to  be  drawn.  He  was 
conscious  that  the  eyes  of  all  three  were  fixed  upon 
the  lower  part  of  the  rent,  not  quite  hidden  by  his 
coat,  which  he  had  managed  to  fasten  by  the  top 
button. 

"You  poor  dear!"  wailed  the  little  woman  again. 
"What  have  they  been  doing  to  you?  Tell  Higgy." 


S4,  THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

The  position  was  one  full  of  embarrassment.  Smith 
happened  to  catch  the  eye  of  the  girl.  He  could  have 
sworn  he  detected  a  glint  of  laughter;  but  it  was  gone 
in  a  flash. 

"I  thought  you  must  be  a  burglar!"  continued  the 
round  little  body,  "and  that  you  had  killed  poor  Mr. 
Willis.  I  heard  him  come  down.  Oh,  Mr.  Willis!" 
she  cried,  turning  to  the  butler,  "to  think  that  we 
should  live  to  see  this  day." 

Willis  uttered  something  suggestive  of  a  sympathetic 
moan. 

"Really,"  broke  in  Smith,  smarting  at  the  recollec- 
tion of  the  laughter  in  the  girl's  eyes.  "I  don't  know 
what  all  this  means  but — "  he  stopped.  It  was  devil- 
ishly awkward  to  explain  to  three  people  that  he  had 
climbed  an  iron  gate  at  eleven  o'clock  at  night  in  order 
to  seek  shelter. 

"We  must  cable  to  her  Ladyship,"  murmured  Willis, 
making  an  effort  to  rise,  "I — "  he  sank  back  again, 
however.  Obviously  the  shock  had  shaken  him  badly. 

"Not  to-night,  Willis,"  said  the  girl  with  decision. 
"It's  too  late,  and  the  post-office  is  closed."  Then 
turning  to  Smith,  she  added,  "She  is  not  strong,  and 
she  went  to  South  Africa  for  a  voyage." 

"But — "  began  the  little  woman  in  pink,  then  she 
stopped  suddenly. 

Willis  was  nodding  his  head  in  approval  of  the  girl's 
words. 

"Don't  you  think,  Mrs.  Higgs,  you  had  better  re- 
lease this  gentleman's  arm?"  enquired  the  girl  with 
a  little  friendly  smile.  "He  looks  very  tired." 

"This  gentleman !"  cried  the  little  woman  addressed 
as  Mrs.  Higgs.  "Why,  Miss  Marjorie,  he  isn't  a  gen- 


A  QUESTION  OF  IDENTITY  35 

tleman,  he's  Mr.  Alfred,  our  Mr.  Alfred.  Surely  you 
— but  then  you  were  only  in  short  frocks  when  he — 
when  he  went  away,  wasn't  she,  Mr.  Willis?" 

"You  had  better  show — Mr.  Alfred  to  his  room 
when  you  feel  well  enough,  Willis."  There  was  a 
noticeable  pause  before  the  girl  pronounced  the  name, 
"and  then  I  think  we  might  all  get  to  bed.  It's  late," 
and  she  glanced  at  her  wrist-watch. 

"Yes,  Miss  Marjorie,"  murmured  Willis,  with  the 
air  of  one  accustomed  to  receiving  orders  from  her. 

With  a  slight  bow  to  Smith  the  girl  turned,  crossed 
the  hall,  and  ran  lightly  up  the  stairs,  leaving  him 
speculating  as  to  what  would  be  the  attitude  of  "her 
Ladyship"  in  regard  to  his  sudden  appearance  in  the 
family  circle  and,  above  all,  what  relationship  was 
supposed  to  exist  between  them.  He  more  than  half 
suspected  that  he  was  to  be  proclaimed  an  erring  son, 
returned  to  the  ancestral  roof  after  years  of  wandering. 

Would  Marjorie  turn  out  to  be  a  sister?  What 
wonderful  hair  she  had,  and  what  ankles!  He  was 
sure  that  she  could  laugh  without  crinkling  her  nose. 

"Feeling  better?"  he  inquired  of  Willis,  as  the  girl 
disappeared  at  the  top  of  the  stairs. 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Alfred,"  was  the  grateful  reply, 
as  the  old  man  looked  up,  an  expression  in  his  eyes 
that  was  almost  adoration.  "I'm  so  sorry,  Mr.  Alfred. 
I  ought  to — "  He  made  another  ineffectual  effort  to 
rise;  but  sank  back  again. 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Smith  cheerily,  "you  just 
sit  down  there  until  you're  feeling  fit  again." 

"Isn't  that  just  like  Mr.  Alfred,  Mr.  Willis?"  She 
whom  the  girl  had  called  Mrs.  Higgs,  having  relin- 
quished Smith's  arm,  now  stood  looking  up  at  him 


86  THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

with  an  affection  which  he  found  positively  embarrass- 
ing. "Your  poor  trousers,  how — " 

"Between  you  and  me,"  said  Smith  with  a  smile, 
"my  trousers  are  my  Achilles  heel." 

"So?"  she  crooned,  without  understanding  the  clas- 
sical allusion.  "You  poor  lamb,  and  how  wet  you  are." 

Once  more  she  made  an  effort  to  clutch  his  arm;  but 
Smith  was  too  quick  for  her.  He  stepped  quickly  back, 
ostensibly  to  move  his  suit-case  to  the»side.of  the  hall. 

"Do  you  mind  telling  me  who  I  am  supposed  to  be?" 
he  enquired,  looking  from  Willis  to  Mrs.  Higgs. 

"You're  Mr.  — "  began  the  butler,  when  he  was 
interrupted  by  the  old  lady. 

"Who  you  are  supposed  to  be !"  she  cried.  "Why, 
you're  our  Mr.  Alfred,  my  Mr.  Alfred,"  she  added, 
as  if  to  remove  from  his  mind  any  possibility  of  doubt 
as  to  her  share  in  him.  "Didn't  I  nurse  you  when 
you  were  a  baby,  didn't  I — " 

"Hush,"  said  Smith,  "let  us  draw  a  veil  over  these 
embarrassing  intimacies." 

"Isn't  that  just  like  Mr.  Alfred?"  she  crowed,  show- 
ing a  perfect  set  of  teeth,  as  she  turned  to  Willis  for 
corroboration.  He  nodded,  and  rubbed  his  eyes  with 
the  back  of  his  hand. 

"But  who  is  Mr.  Alfred,  or  who  was  Mr.  Alfred?" 
asked  Smith,  "and  who  is  everybody,  incidentally  who 
are  you?"  He  smiled  down  into  the  china-blue  eyes. 
He  felt  that  the  time  had  come  to  make  an  effort 
to  escape  from  the  skein  of  mis-identification  in  which 
he  had  become  involved. 

"As  if  you  don't  remember  your  poor  old  nurse, 
your  old  Higgy." 

"Oh!  that's  it,  is  it?  You're  Mr.  Alfred's  nurse, 
and  Willis,  I  take  it,  is  the  major  domo." 


A  QUESTION  OF  IDENTITY  37 

"I'm  the  butler,  Mr.  Alfred.  Surely  you  haven't 
forgotten — " 

"And  who  is  Miss  Marjorie?"  interrupted  Smith, 
aand  who  is  her  Ladyship?" 

"Miss  Marjorie  is  a  friend,  Mr.  Stannard's  daugh- 
ter, Master  Eric's  sister,"  she  explained  in  the  soothing 
accents  one  adopts  with  a  refractory  child,  "and  her 
Ladyship  is  your  mother,  Mr.  Alfred." 

He  was  conscious  of  a  feeling  of  relief  that  the  con- 
sanguinities left  the  field  clear  in  one  direction,  although 
the  sudden  possession  of  an  unknown  mother  might 
prove  an  embarrassment;  still  she  was  in  South  Africa. 

"I'm  very  sorry,"  he  said  at  length,  "but  I'm  not 
Mr.  Alfred— I—" 

"Not  Mr.  Alfred!"  cried  Mrs.  Higgs. 

"Not  Mr.  Alfred!"  repeated  Willis. 

The  two  gazed  up  at  Smith  incredulously,  the  ex- 
pression on  their  faces  so  ludicrous  that  he  found  it 
difficult  to  restrain  a  smile.  Willis  struggled  to  his 
feet,  as  if  such  an  amazing  statement  could  be  con- 
futed only  in  an  upright  position. 

"Perhaps  Mr.  Alfred — perhaps  you've  lost  your 
memory,"  he  suggested. 

"Ah!"  cried  Mrs.  Higgs,  clutching  at  the  straw  as 
if  it  had  been  a  Boddy  lifebelt.  "You've  been  ill  and 
lost  your  memory."  She  seemed  quite  satisfied  with  the 
explanation. 

"Anyway,  if  you  will  let  me  dry  my  clothes,  I  shall 
be  eternally  grateful  to  you  both,"  said  Smith.  "Nor- 
folk seems  rather  a  wet  county,"  he  added. 

The  effect  of  his  remark  was  instantaneous. 

"I'm  so  sorry,  Mr.  Alfred,"  cried  Willis,  picking  up 
the  suit-case,  whilst  Mrs.  Higgs  clucked  round  him  like 
a  broody  hen,  feeling  the  wetness  of  him  and  murmur- 


38  THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

ing  "you  poor  lamb"  and  "look  at  your  poor  trousers." 
Without  further  argument  the  procession  formed, 
Mrs.  Higgs  leading  the  way,  using  both  hands  to  help 
herself  up  the  shallow  stairs,  whilst  Willis  brought  up 
the  rear  with  the  suit-case.  He  had  made  a  valiant 
effort  to  attach  to  himself  the  rain-coat;  but  Smith, 
quicker  off  the  mark,  secured  what  was,  in  reality,  the 
only  thing  between  him  and  flagrant  indelicacy. 

Never,  Smith  decided,  had  a  more  extraordinary 
procession  mounted  a  staircase.  The  three  might  easily 
have  formed  the  characters  in  a  knock-about  farce. 

The  pink  of  Mrs.  Higgs's  wrapper  clashed  wick- 
edly with  the  blue  of  Willis'  dressing-gown,  whilst  as 
for  himself,  surely  never  in  the  history  of  prodigals 
had  one  returned  in  a  more  thoroughly  dilapidated  con- 
dition. The  one  thing  that  began  to  trouble  him  was 
the  prospect  of  securing  a  few  husks.  He  was  uncom- 
monly hungry. 

The  act  of  walking  up  this  strange,  heavily-carpeted 
staircase  seemed  to  bring  him  to  a  realisation  of  the 
hopelessly  false  position  in  which  he  had  become  in- 
volved. What  would  happen  if  the  real  Alfred  were 
to  turn  up?  He,  Smith,  would  be  branded  as  an  im- 
postor and,  in  all  probability,  booted  out,  or  perhaps 
even  prosecuted. 

At  the  head  of  the  stairs,  Willis  took  the  lead,  still 
tottery;  but  making  an  effort  to  control  his  weakness. 

Beside  Willis  toddled  Mrs.  Higgs,  the  two  whisper- 
ing together.  Smith  distinctly  heard  the  words  "lost 
his  memory."  Half  way  along  the  corridor,  they 
paused  at  a  door  on  the  right,  which  Willis  threw  open. 

Mrs.  Higgs  once  more  grasped  Smith's  coat-sleeve. 

"Oh,  my  dear !"  she  murmured  in  tones  that  were 
none  too  steady.  "Mr.  Willis  will  look  after  you." 


A  QUESTION  OF  IDENTITY  39 

"I  assure  you — "  Smith  began,  then  he  paused.  It 
seemed  so  futile  to  attempt  to  dispute  the  testimony  of 
these  two  good  souls  who  seemed,  without  question,  to 
accept  him  as  the  missing  Alfred. 

"There  has  been  an  extraordinary  mistake,"  he  con- 
tinued. "My  name  isn't  Alfred.  It's  Smith,  James 
Smith  of — "  he  paused,  then  quickly  added,  "of  Lon- 
don. I  came  to  ask — " 

"Hadn't  you  better  change  your  clothes,  Mr.  Al- 
fred?" interposed  Willis,  pushing  open  the  door  to  its 
fullest  extent.  "You're  very  wet,  sir." 

It  seemed  to  Smith  absurd  to  be  ordered  to  change 
into  dry  clothing  on  the  assumption  that  he  was  some- 
one else;  still,  he  had  to  spend  the  night  somewhere, 
and  shelter  seemed  difficult  to  find  in  Norfolk.  Any- 
how, everything  could  be  explained  in  the  morning. 

"He  must  have  a  hot  bath  at  once,  Mr.  Willis." 
The  words  broke  in  upon  his  thoughts.  "The  poor 
lamb,"  continued  Mrs.  Higgs.  "Many's  the  time  I've 
bathed  him.  Ah!  Mr.  Alfred,"  she  added  reminis- 
cently,  "you  were  such  a  beautiful  child  in  your — " 

Suddenly  she  sneezed.  This  seemed  to  remind  her 
of  the  hour;  for,  with  a  hurried  grip  of  Smith's  hand  in 
both  her  own,  she  turned  and  trotted  down  the  cor- 
ridor, obviously  reluctant  to  leave  to  Willis  the  hon- 
ours of  the  occasion. 

Smith  entered  the  room  followed  by  the  butler. 
Having  closed  the  door,  the  old  man  stood  alternately 
blinking  and  dabbing  his  eyes  with  a  coloured  handker- 
chief, which  he  had  just  produced  from  somewhere. 

As  he  entered  the  room,  Smith  looked  about  him 
curiously.  The  first  thing  that  struck  him  was,  not  the 
atmosphere  of  luxury,  or  the  obvious  comfort  of  the 
room  itself;  but  two  bowls  of  roses,  one  on  a  table  in 


40  THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

front  of  the  window,  the  other  on  the  dressing-table. 
There  was  something  pathetic  and  touching  in  these 
silent  symbols  of  memory. 

He  walked  across  to  the  dressing-room,  and  then  into 
the  bath-room.  Slowly  he  was  becoming  convinced  that 
it  was  a  dream,  from  which  he  would  presently  awaken 
to  the  realities  of  trudging  across  rain-soaked  fields  in 
search  of  shelter.  He  had  heard  that  policemen  some- 
times fell  asleep  when  on  their  beats  at  night. 

"Don't  you  think  you  ought  to  get  your  things  off, 
Mr.  Alfred?"  he  heard  Willis  saying  in  an  anxious 
voice.  "You  know  where  everything  is — "  he  paused, 
as  if  suddenly  recollecting  Mrs.  Higgs's  suggestion 
about  his  loss  of  memory. 

"The  cigarettes  are  over  there,  Mr.  Alfred,"  he  con- 
tinued hastily,  "and  the  whisky-and-soda  there."  He 
indicated  where  each  was  to  be  found.  "You  look  so 
tired,  sir,  a  hot  bath — " 

"It's  not  a  bad  idea,"  said  Smith,  as  he  glanced  across 
at  the  bed.  "Yes,  I  think  I  will,  and  turn  in  afterwards. 
You'd  better  turn  in,  too,"  he  added,  smiling  in  spite  of 
himself  at  the  quaint  figure  the  butler  presented. 

"I'll  put  your  things  out,  Mr.  Alfred,  and  prepare 
your — " 

"You'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  said  Smith  with  de- 
cision. "You  had  better  have  a  whisky-and-soda  to 
pull  you  together,  and  then  get  a  good  sleep." 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Alfred,"  said  the  old  man  grate- 
fully; "but—" 

"Never  mind  about  the  'but,'  do  as  I  say,"  was  the 
smiling  retort.  There  was  something  very  lovable 
about  the  old  fellow. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Alfred,"  said  Willis  obediently;  he  still 


A  QUESTION  OF  IDENTITY  41 

lingered,  however.  Smith  looked  at  him  interrogat- 
ingly. 

"I — I  only  wanted  to  say,  sir,  how — how  happy  this 
will  make  us  all."  His  voice  shook.  "Her  Ladyship 
has  been  ill,  we  were  afraid  she  was — but  she'll  be  bet- 
ter now,"  and  he  left  the  room,  blinking  rapidly. 

Having  turned  on  the  water  in  the  bath,  Smith  pro- 
ceeded to  undress,  walking  about  the  room  as  he  did 
so,  examining  first  one  thing,  then  another.  Selecting 
a  cigarette  from  a  silver-box  on  the  dressing-table,  he 
lighted  it,  and  then  continued  his  wandering,  into  the 
dressing-room  and  on  to  the  bath-room  again,  like  a 
man  who  is  puzzled  at  finding  himself  in  unaccustomed 
surroundings.  Luxury  there  was  everywhere,  comfort 
and  happiness.  Yes,  and  the  cigarettes  were  good. 
Evidently  somebody  had  a  delicate  taste  in  tobacco. 

He  opened  the  wardrobe  and  peeped  in.  The  clothes 
had  every  appearance  of  being  unworn.  Out  of  curi- 
osity he  tried  on  the  jacket  of  a  lounge-suit,  and  stood 
regarding  himself  in  the  long  mirror.  Certainly  Al- 
fred's figure  was  not  unlike  his  own.  The  jacket  was 
a  very  passable  fit. 

Walking  over  to  the  dressing-table,  he  tested  the 
razors.  They  were  sharp  and  ready  for  use.  In  short, 
everything  seemed  to  indicate  that  the  room  was  in 
occupation. 

His  eyes  suddenly  caught  sight  of  a  pin-cushion. 
The  bright  heads  of  the  pins  with  which  it  was  stuck 
gave  him  an  idea.  Taking  a  final  deep  inhalation  from 
his  cigarette,  he  selected  a  pin  and  deliberately  stuck  it 
into  his  forearm.  It  hurt.  He  looked  about  him.  No, 
he  had  not  awakened. 

Once  more  he  ran  the  pin  deep  into  the  flesh,  this 


42  THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

time  of  the  other  arm.  He  waited  a  moment;  but  still 
he  did  not  awaken.  He  gazed  at  the  pin  between  his 
fingers,  then  stabbed  it  back  into  the  pin-cushion. 
Walking  over  to  the  bath-room,  he  discarded  his  re- 
maining clothing,  and  stepped  into  the  grateful 
warmth. 

"Well,  it  isn't  a  dream  anyhow,"  he  said  with  a  sigh 
in  which  there  was  a  supreme  contentment.  "It  isn't 
drink,  and  it  isn't  cocaine.  I  wonder  what  the  deuce 
it  is." 

As  he  lay  smoking,  Smith  found  himself  wondering 
what  Peters  would  think  if  he  could  see  him  in  another 
man's  bath,  endowed  with  another  man's  identity.  In 
all  probability  he  would  just  re-arrange  the  bath-mat, 
enquire  if  there  were  anything  more,  and  with  a  "Very 
good,  sir,"  pad  his  fifteen  stone  noiselessly  out  of  the 
room,  closing  the  door  softly  behind  him. 

That  was  the  best  of  Peters,  nothing  seemed  capable 
of  diverting  him  from  his  natural  orbit.  When  he  had 
been  told  that  in  future  Darrell  Hildreth  was  to  be 
known  as  James  Smith,  his  "Very  good,  sir,"  was  as 
perfect  in  its  inflection  as  if  he  had  been  instructed  to 
get  a  taxi. 

With  a  face  as  expressionless  as  the  entrance  of  a 
tunnel,  Peters  had  heard  the  news.  Smith  thought 
he  detected  a  slight  starting  forward  of  the  prominent 
blood-shot  eyes,  which  in  the  army  had  contributed  to 
the  nickname  of  "the  whiskered-prawn" ;  but  he  could 
not  be  absolutely  certain. 

How  different  he  was  from  Willis.  How  would  they 
get  on  together? 

Within  an  hour  everything  had  been  arranged. 
Peters  had  declined  both  the  notice  and  the  month's 
salary,  He  had  placed  himself  upon  board  wages, 


A  QUESTION  OF  IDENTITY  43 

packed  two  bags  for  his  master,  and  announced  his  in- 
tention of  setting  out  upon  a  motor-cycling  tour.  The 
future  he  had  brushed  aside  with  the  unconcern  of  a 
confirmed  fatalist. 

All  was  done  with  that  quiet  efficiency  that  had 
gained  for  him  in  the  army  three  stripes  on  the  sleeve, 
garnished  with  a  crown  above. 

Smith  realised  that  Peters  regarded  the  breach  be- 
tween himself  and  his  uncle  as  a  merely  temporary  rift. 

It  was  impossible  to  argue  against  Peters'  convic- 
tions; Smith  had  discovered  that  years  ago.  He  would 
say,  "Very  good,  sir,"  and  there  the  matter  would  end; 
but  the  course  of  events  remained  unchanged,  if  in 
Peters'  opinion  a  disarrangement  were  undesirable. 

Yes;  Peters  would  certainly  bully  Willis,  and  Willis 
would  as  certainly  submit.  But  of  course  that  could 
not  be  allowed. 

Among  other  things,  Peters  knew  that  Smith  was  in 
no  immediate  need  of  money.  His  gratuity  lay  at  Cox's 
Bank  untouched  and,  to  Peters'  practical  mind,  money 
meant  power.  Life  in  the  army  had  but  confirmed  a 
belief  he  had  held  from  childhood. 

In  the  languorous  comfort  of  a  hot  bath,  Smith 
found  the  difficulties  of  the  situation  vanishing.  Why 
should  he  not  accept  what  the  gods  offered?  The  old 
niche  had  proved  a  mis-fit  for  the  new  man,  why  not 
try  another?  Possibly  Alfred  Warren's  was  the  very 
one  he  was  seeking.  Did  not  the  hermit  crab  change 
its  habitation  according  to  the  demands  of  its  physical 
growth?  Why  should  not  he,  James  Smith,  apply  the 
same  rule  to  his  physical  growth? 

It  would,  at  least,  solve  one  problem  of  the  future. 
There  would  be  no  puzzling  what  to  do  when  his  stock 
of  money  was  exhausted;  no  striving  to  decide  whether 


44  THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

to  enlist  or  become  a  clerk  at  three  pounds  a  week.  No 
trudging  along  dusty  roads  ribboning-out  interminably 
before  him,  hungry  and  thirsty,  dreading  the  approach 
of  rain  that  would  drench  his  couch  for  the  coming 
night.  Instead,  there  was  all  this  comfort  and  luxury, 
with  money  to  spend,  clothes  to  wear,  and  food  to  eat. 
If  it  were  ever  discovered  that  he  was  not  the  real 
Alfred,  he  could  easily  say  that  he  himself  had  been 
the  first  to  point  out  the  mistake. 

It  was  an  adventure,  and  life  was  fearfully  tedious. 
Then,  there  was  the  girl  in  the  green  frock.  Why  had 
she  left  him  as  she  had?  It  seemed  a  bit  odd.  Any- 
how he  must  see  her  again — several  times.  Why  should 
he  not  grasp  this  splendid  opportunity?  No  one  would 
know,  he  was  not  robbing  any  one.  He — 

"Here,  get  out  of  it!"  he  cried  aloud,  as  he  turned 
on  the  cold-water  tap.  "Hot  baths  caused  the  down- 
fall of  Rome  and  the  ruin  of  Moorish  Spain." 

"A  Spartan  could  be  a  casuist  in  a  hot  bath,"  he  mut- 
tered ten  minutes  later,  as  he  towelled  himself  vigor- 
ously. "Still,  it's  been  rather  jolly,  and  it  will  cer- 
tainly last  the  night,"  he  added. 

When  he  returned  to  his  dressing-room,  he  found  a 
goodly  plate  of  sandwiches,  flanked  by  a  decanter  of 
whisky  and  a  syphon  of  soda. 

"Great  Gulliver  be  praised!"  he  muttered.  "The 
very  thing,"  and  he  proceeded  to  mix  himself  a  drink, 
and  set  to  work  upon  the  sandwiches  with  the  earnest- 
ness of  a  hungry  man. 

Suddenly  his  busy  jaws  ceased  working.  There  had 
flashed  across  his  mind  a  question  that  startled  him. 
What  sort  of  a  niche  was  this  that  fate  seemed  deter- 
mined he  should  occupy?  In  other  words,  why  had 
Alfred  Warren  left  home? 


CHAPTER  III 

WHAT  THE  BUTLER  TOLD 

WHEN  Smith  opened  his  eyes  the  next  morn- 
ing, it  was  to  see  Willis  padding  about  the 
room  with  stealthy  tread,  as  he  gathered  to- 
gether the  clothes  he  had  thrown  off  the  night  before. 

For  some  minutes  he  lay  watching  through  half- 
closed  eyes.  The  old  man  shook  his  head  sadly  as  he 
noted  the  torn  and  dilapidated  condition  of  Smith's  dis- 
carded clothing.  When,  however,  he  picked  up  the 
boots,  sodden  and  encrusted  with  mud,  he  blinked  sev- 
eral times,  as  if  striving  to  keep  back  the  tears. 

Having  gathered  together  the  various  items  of 
Smith's  rain-soaked  apparel  and  placed  them  on  a  chair 
by  the  door,  the  butler  glanced  at  the  clock,  the  hands 
of  which  pointed  to  ten  minutes  past  eight.  Tip-toeing 
over  to  the  bed,  he  stood  for  a  moment  gazing  down  at 
the  apparently  sleeping  man. 

"Mr.  Alfred,  sir,"  he  whispered,  "it's  ten  minutes 
past  eight." 

"So  it  isn't  a  dream  after  all,"  yawned  Smith,  as  he 
sat  up  and  proceeded  to  stretch  luxuriously. 

"A  dream,  Mr.  Alfred?"  repeated  Willis. 

"Yes,  that  I'm  here.  I  thought  it  was  a  dream,  you 
know,"  and  he  laughed,  a  little  self-consciously. 

Willis  smiled  sympathetically.  "It's  almost  too  good 
to  be  true,  Mr.  Alfred,"  he  said.  "I'm  sorry  to  wake 
you,  sir.  I've  put  everything  ready,"  he  indicated  the 
clothes. 

45 


46  THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

"Feeling  better?"  enquired  Smith,  mentally  register- 
ing the  opinion  that  black  suited  the  old  man's  com- 
plexion better  than  royal  blue. 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Alfred,  I'm  all  right  again  now. 
It  was  the  shock,  sir.  Would  you  like  me  to  remain, 
Mr.  Alfred?" 

"Yes,  I  want  to  talk  to  you,"  said  Smith,  springing 
out  of  bed ;  "but  I'll  have  a  bath  and  shave  first.  Ah !" 
as  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  tea-tray  by  the  bedside. 

"It's  cold,  Mr.  Alfred,  I'll  get  some  more,"  and, 
picking  up  the  tray,  Willis  left  the  room. 

When  he  returned,  Smith  had  finished  his  bath  and 
was  half-way  through  shaving. 

For  the  next  quarter-of-an-hour  he  devoted  himself 
to  his  toilet,  assisted  by  Willis.  Some  difficulty  arose 
as  to  what  clothes  he  was  to  wear.  Willis  had  made 
the  selection  from  Alfred  Warren's  wardrobe,  whereas 
Smith  insisted  upon  the  contents  of  his  own  suit-case 
being  drawn  upon. 

With  a  sigh  of  obvious  regret,  Willis  returned 
Alfred  Warren's  clothes  to  drawers  and  wardrobe, 
whilst  Smith  completed  his  toilet. 

"Now  I  feel  equal  to  meeting  even  dragons,"  he 
cried,  as  he  buckled  on  his  wrist-watch,  with  him  always 
the  last  act  in  his  preparations  for  the  day. 

Willis  smiled  benevolently.  He  appeared  to  have 
reached  that  stage  of  happiness  where  words  seem  un- 
necessary. 

"By  the  way,  how  long  ago  is  it  that  I  am  supposed 
to  have  disappeared?"  Smith  enquired. 

"Seven  and  a  quarter  years,  Mr.  Alfred,"  was  the 
reply.  "You  went  away  on  March  loth." 

"And  yet  all  those  clothes  are  new?"  he  nodded  in 
the  direction  of  the  wardrobe. 


WHAT  THE  BUTLER  TOLD  47 

"Her  Ladyship  looks  after  your  wardrobe  herself, 
sir.  Every  year  she  sends  orders  to  your  tailor  for  new 
clothes.  She  always  looked  after  the  flowers  too  until 
she  went  away,  and  put  fresh  cigarettes  here,  so  that 
when  you  came  back  you  would  be  able  to — "  the  old 
man  broke  off,  his  voice  failing  him. 

Smith  picked  up  a  cigarette  and,  for  some  minutes, 
smoked  in  silence.  He  was  wondering  what  sort  of  a 
son  Alfred  had  been  to  inspire  such  devotion. 

"Now,  Willis,"  he  said  presently.  "I  want  to  have 
a  little  chat  with  you.  Sit  down  over  there  and  be  com- 
fortable." 

"But  breakfast,  Mr.  Alfred?"  he  queried. 

"Breakfast  can  wait,"  was  the  reply. 

As  Smith  glanced  at  the  clock,  Willis  walked 
swiftly  over  to  the  dressing-table,  opened  a  drawer  and, 
a  moment  later,  returned  with  a  gold  cigarette-case. 

"I  quite  forgot,  Mr.  Alfred,"  he  said  apologetically. 
Smith  took  the  cigarette  case  and  proceeded  to  examine 
it.  On  the  side  was  engraved  the  monogram  T.W.A., 
orA.T.W. 

"Sit  down,  there's  a  good  fellow,"  said  Smith,  as 
Willis  still  hesitated  on  the  brink  of  a  chair,  whilst  he 
himself  dropped  into  an  arm-chair  by  the  window,  first 
returning  the  cigarette  case  to  the  dressing-table. 

Willis  complied,  seating  himself  on  the  extreme  edge 
of  a  chair  opposite. 

"Have  you  ever  read  Alice  in  Wonderland?"  asked 
Smith. 

"No,  sir,"  replied  Willis,  apology  in  his  tone.  "I 
never  was  much  of  a  one  for  reading,  except  the  news- 
papers." 

"That's  a  pity,"  murmured  Smith,  as  if  to  his 
cigarette. 


48  THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

"I'm  sorry,  Mr.  Alfred,"  he  began  hesitatingly. 
"So  am  I,  Willis.     It  would  have  helped.     How- 
ever,"  he  continued,   puffing  contentedly.      "What  I 
want  you  to  do  is  to  tell  me  something  about  Mr. 
Alfred." 

"Yes,  Mr.  Alfred." 
"Tell  me  all  about  him." 

"You  are  Mr.  Alfred  Warren,  sir,  only  son  of  Lady 
Warren  and  the  late  Sir  Joseph  Warren." 

"Good  Lord!"  cried  Smith,  "not  a  baronet?"  Vi- 
sions of  further  and  even  more  embarrassing  complica- 
tions presented  themselves. 

"No,  Mr.  Alfred,  Sir  Joseph  was  knighted  for  his 
charities." 

Smith  sighed  his  relief. 

"Good.  Burke's  Landed  Gentry  will  tell  the  rest. 
Now  we  shall  get  on  better." 

"Had  this  Mr.  Alfred  any  marked  peculiarities?" 
enquired  Smith.  "Are  there  any  points  you  can  give 
me?  Did  he  take  red  or  white  wine,  English  or  conti- 
nental cheese,  dry  ginger-ale  or  champagne?  In  short, 
tell  me  any  little  details  that  you  think  may  be  helpful." 
For  a  moment  Willis  hesitated,  he  was  obviously 
embarrassed. 

"Come,  out  with  it,  man !  Whatever  may  have  been 
laid  against  Mr.  Alfred,  does  not  affect  me,"  he  was 
beginning  to  find  the  situation  amusing. 

He  had  no  doubt  that  eventually  his  alleged  mother 
would  set  matters  straight.  In  anno  domini  1921  it 
did  not  require  a  Solomon  to  decide  little  affairs  like 
this.  In  the  meantime,  he  was  determined  to  enjoy  to 
the  full  a  novel  experience,  later  he  would  apologise 
for  his  likeness  to  Alfred  and  go  his  way. 


WHAT  THE  BUTLER  TOLD  49 

"You — you  generally  drank  whisky,  sir,  with — ," 
he  hesitated. 

"With  ?"  repeated  Smith  helpfully.  "Were  there  any 
other  pussyfoot  characteristics?" 

"Sometimes  with  a  little  soda;  but  mostly  neat,  Mr. 
Alfred."  The  words  seemed  to  come  almost  apolo- 
getically. 

Smith  gave  a  little  whistle.  "So  that  was  it,"  he 
muttered  under  his  breath,  then  aloud,  "Well,  I'm 
afraid  I  can't  line  up  to  that  standard  now.  I  prefer 
soda  with  a  very  little  whisky." 

As  he  made  this  statement,  there  flashed  into  the 
old  man's  eyes  a  look  which,  if  it  were  not  relief,  was 
something  closely  akin  to  it. 

"Any  other  marked  peculiarities?"  continued  Smith. 

"You  smoked  cigarettes  and  cigars  mostly,  Mr.  Al- 
fred. You  didn't  take  coffee  for  breakfast — " 

"And  whisky  for  tea,"  suggested  Smith. 

"Tea  and  coffee  didn't  agree  with  you,  sir,"  said 
Willis  loyally. 

"Was  Mr.  Alfred  a  pleasant  sort?"  enquired  Smith, 
watching  Willis'  face  intently.  He  saw  the  old  man 
wince  slightly.  "Was  he  popular?  Did  his  con- 
temporaries serenade  him  at  night,  or  burn  him  in  effigy 
by  day?" 

"You,  er — a  pleasant  sort — "  he  hesitated. 

"Was  I  what  you  could  call — well,  on  good  terms 
with  people?"  asked  Smith  helpfully. 

"Oh,  yes!  Mr.  Alfred,"  replied  Willis,  and  then,  as 
if  it  were  forced  from  him  in  spite  of  himself,  he  added, 
"Of  course  everybody  has  enemies,  sir." 

Smith  regarded  the  end  of  his  cigarette  thought- 
fully. 


50  THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

"And  friends  as  well,  I  take  it?"  He  looked  up. 
Again  there  was  in  the  old  man's  expression  the  same 
look  of  embarrassment  he  had  noticed  before. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Alfred.  You — you  had  friends,"  he 
stammered. 

"What  sort  of  friends?"  questioned  Smith. 

"Well — you — "  began  Willis,  then  he  paused,  gaz- 
ing helplessly  at  Smith. 

"Well!" 

"You — you  were  always  rather  democratic,  Mr.  Al- 
fred. You  used  to  say  so,  sir." 

"I  see,"  said  Smith,  half  to  himself. 

"  'When  Adam  delved  and  Eve  span, 

Who  was  then  the  gentleman  ?'  ' 
he  quoted. 

"Yes,  sir.  You  often  used  to  say  that,"  replied 
Willis,  with  obvious  relief. 

"The  deuce  I  did!"  muttered  Smith.  "Had  Mr. 
Alfred  many  women  friends?"  was  his  next  question. 

This  time  the  expression  in  Willis'  eyes  was  that  of 
fear.  He  looked  away  from  Smith,  then  back  again, 
then  down  at  the  carpet.  He  cleared  his  throat,  and 
made  an  effort  to  speak;  but  without  result. 

Seeing  his  obvious  distress,  Smith  refrained  from 
pressing  the  question.  After  all,  it  was  no  affair  of 
his  to  probe  into  the  depths  of  Alfred  Warren's  murky 
past. 

"Drink,  low  company  and  women,"  he  mused,  as  he 
pressed  down  the  lighted  end  of  his  cigarette  upon  the 
ash-tray  on  the  small  table  beside  him. 

So  that  was  why  Alfred  left  home.  It  wouldn't  be 
surprising  if  the  man  who  doubled  his  own  part  with 
that  of  Alfred  found  that  he  had  come  into  rather  an 
awkward  inheritance. 


WHAT  THE  BUTLER  TOLD  51 

"Now,  Willis,  your  attention,"  he  said,  as  he  selected 
another  cigarette.  "I  want  you,  as  a  man  of  the  world, 
to  give  me  your  opinion  on  something  of  importance." 

Willis  became  all  attention. 

"If  you  were  strolling  along  Piccadilly,  say,  and 
some  one  came  up  and  hailed  you  as  the  King  of 
Montenegro,  for  instance,  and  persisted  in  it,  bringing 
forward  other  people  to  prove  that  you  were  His 
Montenegrin  Majesty,  what  exactly  would  you  do?" 

"I  should  tell  them,  Mr.  Alfred,  that  I  was  not  the 
King  of  Montenegro,"  he  replied  gravely. 

"But  if  they  insisted  that  you  were,  how  would  you 
get  out  of  it?"  continued  Smith.  "Suppose  they  brought 
the  Queen  of  Montenegro,  the  Prime  Minister,  the 
Commander-in-Chief,  the  Lord  High  Admiral  and  the 
whole  blessed  lot  to  swear  that  you  were  the  King  of 
Montenegro.  What  then?" 

For  some  minutes  Willis  pondered  deeply  over  the 
question. 

"I  should  tell  them  that  I  was  George  Willis,  Lady 
Warren's  butler,"  he  said  at  length.  "There  are  hun- 
dreds of  people  who  can  prove  it,"  he  added. 

"Ah,  well !"  said  Smith  after  a  pause.  "I  don't  sup- 
pose any  one  will  ever  mistake  you  for  the  King  of 
Montenegro,  Willis.  Besides,  Kings  are  out  of  date  in 
these  Bolshevist  days." 

During  the  next  quarter  of  an  hour  Smith  gained 
much  information  about  the  menage  at  The  Grange. 
He  learned  that  Marjorie  Stannard,  the  girl  he  had 
seen  at  the  window,  was  almost  a  daughter  to  Lady 
Warren.  Marjorie,  it  appeared,  was  the  daughter  of 
Miles  Stannard,  a  recluse,  who  lived  some  thirty  miles 
away.  After  his  wife's  death  at  the  birth  of  Eric  Stan- 
nard, his  fourteen  years'  old  son,  he  had  retired  to  his 


52  THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

library  and  his  historical  studies,  leaving  the  upbringing 
of  Eric  to  an  old  nurse  and  Marjorie,  then  seven. 

Smith  gathered  that  Marjorie  spent  much  of  her 
time  at  The  Grange,  where  she  had  her  own  bedroom. 
Her  horse  Nero,  a  present  from  Lady  Warren,  had 
a  sumptuous  loose-box  in  The  Grange  stables,  there 
being  no  accommodation  for  him  at  her  home. 

He  also  learned  that  Lady  Warren  was  a  semi-in- 
valid, and  that  she  depended  more  and  more  upon 
Marjorie.  Although  Willis  did  not  actually  say  so,  it 
was  clear  to  Smith  that  Lady  Warren's  state  of  health 
was  largely  due  to  the  shock  she  had  experienced  at  the 
sudden  disappearance  of  her  only  son.  She  had  never 
been  strong,  and  this  sorrow  seemed  to  have  prostrated 
her,  leaving  her  heart  permanently  affected.  A  famous 
London  physician  had  insisted  upon  a  sea  voyage  as 
absolutely  necessary. 

"Now  about  breakfast,"  Smith  cried  finally.  "Your 
Norfolk  air  has  made  me  hungry." 

"Will  you  take  it  here,  Mr.  Alfred?" 

"No.  I'll  be  down  in  five  minutes.  I  suppose  I 
shall  be  able  to  see  Miss  Stannard  and  explain." 

"Miss  Marjorie  always  breakfasts  early,  Mr. 
Alfred;  but  I'll  tell  her,"  and  he  turned  and  walked 
across  the  room.  As  the  door  closed  behind  him,  Smith 
threw  himself  back  in  his  chair. 

"The  good  fellow  has  put  his  finger  on  the  weak 
spot  in  my  armour,"  he  murmured.  "I  can  no  more 
prove  that  I  am  not  the  egregious  Alfred  by  the  means 
he  suggests,  than  I  can  bring  evidence  to  show  that  I 
am  the  Grand  Khan  of  Tartary." 

"I  was  wrong,"  he  murmured,  as  he  rose.  "Alice 
in  Wonderland  was  nothing  to  it.  I  wish,  however, 


WHAT  THE  BUTLER  TOLD  53 

that  his  name  had  not  been  Alfred.  I  think  I  could 
have  borne  almost  anything  but  that,  with  all  respect 
to  the  royal  amateur  baker.  I  wonder  if  my  intimates 
will  call  me  Alf." 

Half-way  across  the  room,  he  was  arrested  by  a 
slight  tapping  at  the  door. 

"Come  in,"  he  cried,  pausing. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Alfred!" 

It  was  Mrs.  Higgs,  tightly  encased  in  a  black  gown, 
with  a  cameo  locket  suspended  over  her  ample  bosom 
by  a  heavy  gold  chain. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Alfred,  Mr.  Alfred!"  she  cried.  "To 
think  that  I  should  live  to  see  this  day." 

"It  is  rather  jolly,"  he  said,  glancing  out  at  the 
blue  and  green  of  it  all. 

"You're — you're  not  angry,  Mr.  Alfred?"  There 
was  such  appeal  in  the  eyes,  and  such  a  childish  tremor 
in  her  voice  that  Smith  laughed. 

"Angry!"  he  cried.     "What  about?" 

"With  me  for  coming,  Mr.  Alfred."  Her  tone  was 
that  of  a  child  fully  expecting  to  be  scolded.  "I  ought 
to  have  asked  if  I  might." 

"Why,  you  dear,  sweet  creature,  I'm  only  too  de- 
lighted," he  cried  heartily,  "but  as  I  said  last  night,  I 
don't  in  the  least  know  who  you  are.  I — " 

"Don't  know  who  I  am!"  The  statement  seemed 
to  startle  and  revive  her.  "Don't  know  Higgy,  as  you 
used  to  call  me  when  you  were  a  little  toddler  in  blue 
pinnies.  Don't  know  Martha  Higgs!" 

Smith  shook  his  head  with  a  smile  of  deprecation. 
"I'm  awfully  sorry,"  he  said,  "but  handicapped  as  I 
am,  I  can't  say  I  do;  still,  I'm  very  glad  to  make  good 
the  omission  now,"  he  added. 


54  THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

"But  I  nursed  you,"  she  cried. 

He  smiled  down  at  her  and  she,  too,  broke  into  a 
smile,  showing  a  set  of  beautifully  even,  white  teeth 
that  owed  nothing  to  the  dentist. 

"You  see,"  he  continued,  "there  has  been  an  awful 
mistake.  It's  a  most  extraordinary  case  of  mistaken 
identity." 

"Mistaken  identity!"  she  cried.  "Mistaken  identity! 
No,  Mr.  Alfred,"  she  continued  with  decision,  "you 
might  deceive  a  mother;  but  you  can't  deceive  a  nurse. 
I  should  have  known  you  anywhere  as  my  Mr.  Alfred," 
she  added  with  conviction. 

"The  deuce  you  would!"  he  muttered  under  his 
breath. 

"Didn't  Mr.  Willis  recognise  you  at  once?"  she  en- 
quired. 

"He  most  certainly  did,"  he  responded.  "That's 
the  peculiarly  embarrassing  part  of  it.  Everybody 
seems  to  recognise  me.  I'm  afraid  the  epidemic  may 
continue." 

"Then  doesn't  that  convince  you?"  she  enquired. 
He  shook  his  head. 

"It  might,"  he  said  dubiously,  "if  I  didn't  happen  to 
know  I'm  some  one  else." 

"You  poor  lamb,"  murmured  Mrs.  Higgs.  "To 
think  of  what  you  must  have  suffered,  and  us  not  able 
to  do  anything.  Now  you've  lost  your  memory;  but 
we'll  make  up  for  everything  now,  Mr.  Alfred,  and 
you'll  never  leave  us  again,  sir,  will  you?"  There  was 
such  earnest  entreaty  in  her  voice,  that  Smith  felt  like 
a  fellow  about  to  rob  a  widow  of  her  all. 

"If — "  he  began,  then  stopped.  It  seemed  so  utterly 
futile  to  endeavour  to  convince  these  good  people  that 


WHAT  THE  BUTLER  TOLD  55 

he  was  not  the  missing  heir.  The  more  he  protested 
the  more  convinced  they  seemed  to  become. 

"You  won't,  Mr.  Alfred,  will  you?"  she  pleaded. 

"Now,  if  you  want  to  be  very  nice,"  he  said  per- 
suasively, "you  will  let  me  go  and  get  breakfast.  I 
want  that  more  than  anything  else  on  earth.  I'm  as 
hungry  as  a  buffalo." 

"You  poor  dear,"  cried  Mrs.  Higgs,  as  she  turned 
towards  the  door,  "and  to  think  of  all  the  times  I've 
put  your  bib  on — and  fed — " 

"Well,  this  is  one  of  the  times  that  you're  not  going 
to  put  my  bib  on  and  feed  me.  I'm  quite  a  clean  eater," 
he  added  with  a  smile,  as  he  walked  along  the  corridor, 
his  hand  upon  her  shoulder. 

Suddenly  she  seized  his  hand,  carried  it  swiftly  to 
her  lips,  then,  dropping  it  hastily,  turned  and  trotted 
down  a  side  corridor. 

There  was  something  confoundedly  affectionate 
about  the  domestic  atmosphere  of  the  place,  he  decided, 
as  he  passed  downstairs,  prepared  for  the  worst;  but 
hoping  that  it  would  be  Marjorie. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  VICAR  DECIDES  TO  ACT 


"    4    LFRED  WARREN'S  back." 

/"\        The  vicar  paused  in  the  act  of  unfolding 

his  napkin  across  his  knee,  and  gazed  across 

at  his  sister  over  the  top  of  his  gold-rimmed  spectacles. 

"Where  did  you  hear  it,  my  dear?"  he  enquired 
mildly,  as  his  eyes  wandered  to  the  French  windows 
opening  out  on  to  the  lawn,  where  the  sun  spread  a 
golden  carpet  of  light.  "I  have  often  wondered,"  he 
continued  irrelevantly,  "why  we  do  not  breakfast  out 
of  doors." 

"Because  it's  better  to  take  eggs  and  bacon  hot,  and 
marmalade  without  wasps,"  replied  Miss  Lipscombe 
grimly. 

"True,"  said  the  Vicar,  "I  had  forgotten  that. 
Thank  you,  Hannah,"  he  added,  as  he  took  from  her 
the  cup  of  coffee  she  handed  him. 

For  fully  a  minute  there  was  silence  as  the  vicar 
stirred  his  coffee,  awaiting  the  arrival  of  Janet  with 
the  bacon  and  eggs. 

"The  instinct  towards  sun-worship  is  easy  of  under- 
standing," he  murmured,  as  he  continued  to  gaze  out 
of  the  French  windows,  where  an  impatient  robin  was 
hopping  about,  awaiting  the  breakfast  of  bacon-rind 

56 


THE  VICAR  DECIDES  TO  ACT  57 

and  crumbs  that  Miss  Lipscombe  never  failed  to  supply. 

"The  passing  of  the  night  with  all  its  dangers,"  he 
continued  dreamily,  "the  return  of  the  life-giving 
sun—" 

"I  said  that  Alfred  Warren  had  returned,"  remarked 
Miss  Lipscombe,  then,  a  moment  later,  she  added  a 
warning  "shsss — " 

The  vicar's  wandering  thoughts  returned  to  the 
breakfast-table,  and  he  gazed  with  short-sighted  eyes 
across  at  his  sister,  as  if  puzzled  to  account  for  her 
sudden  admonition  to  silence.  The  sight  of  Janet,  how- 
ever, with  a  dish  of  bacon  and  eggs  explained  matters. 

"He  arrived  last  night,"  continued  Miss  Lipscombe, 
as  the  girl  closed  the  door  behind  her.  "Tom  Bassing- 
thwaighte  told  Janet  this  morning  when  he  brought 
the  letters." 

"Ah!"  said  the  vicar,  as  he  reached  for  the  plate 
Miss  Lipscombe  handed  to  him. 

"What  do  you  think  will  happen  if  he  meets  Bob 
Thirkettle?"  demanded  Miss  Lipscombe. 

"An  excellent  fellow,  Thirkettle,"  he  murmured  as, 
with  great  deliberation,  he  cut  the  rind  from  the  rasher 
of  bacon  on  his  plate. 

"A  murderous  ruffian,"  retorted  Miss  Lipscombe. 

"My  dear!"  expostulated  the  vicar  in  a  tone  of 
gentle  surprise. 

"You  haven't  answered  my  question,"  persisted  Miss 
Lipscombe,  who  was  accustomed  to  her  brother's  ab- 
sent-mindedness. "What  will  happen  if  they  meet? 
Thirkettle  might  return  any  day." 

"What  will  happen?"  repeated  the  vicar  vaguely. 
"What  should  happen,  Hannah?" 

Miss  Lipscombe  looked  across  at  her  brother  with 


58  THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

tightly-closed  lips,  and  something  in  her  large  grey 
eyes  that  was  half  amusment,  half  rebuke.  Her  pose 
was  to  be  uncompromising,  grim,  material.  At  first 
glance  she  gave  this  impression,  with  her  smoothly 
brushed  grey  hair,  parted  in  the  middle  and  carried  to 
the  back,  where  it  was  done  up  into  a  neat  knob,  her 
lined,  almost  colourless  face,  her  steady-gazing  grey 
eyes  and  the  nose  that  spelt  character. 

"Have  you  forgotten  why  Alfred  Warren  left  Little 
Bilstead?"  she  enquired. 

For  a  moment  the  vicar  gazed  at  her  as  if  foraging 
somewhere  at  the  back  of  his  mind  for  an  explanation. 
Suddenly  he  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork  upon  the 
plate,  and  there  crept  into  his  eyes  a  look  of  concern. 

"Bless  my  soul,  Hannah !"  he  exclaimed,  "Fm  afraid 
I  had." 

"How  like  you,  John."  The  tone  was  that  of  one 
making  an  excuse  rather  than  an  accusation. 

"I  am  very  forgetful,  Hannah,  very  forgetful,"  he 
said  humbly.  "I  sometimes  feel  that  I  am  unworthy 
of  being  the  shepherd  of  a  flock.  I  am  not  sufficiently 
watchful — " 

"Rubbish!"  Miss  Lipscombe's  mouth  re-assumed 
its  line  of  grimness. 

"You  always  say  that,"  he  continued;  "but  I  often 
feel  that  I  ought  to  write  to  the  bishop  relinquishing 
a  charge  I  am  no  longer  worthy  to  hold.  A  shepherd 
should  be  watchful,"  he  added  sorrowfully,  "and — 
and  I  forget,  I  seem  to  forget  everything." 

"Including  the  fact  that  Alfred  Warren  has  re- 
turned," she  said.  "Get  on  with  your  breakfast,  John, 
and  we'll  talk  about  it  afterwards." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  the  vicar,  gazing  with  unseeing  eyes 
at  the  robin.  "I  really  must  give  it  serious  considera- 


THE  VICAR  DECIDES  TO  ACT  59 

tion,"  and  once  more  he  took  up  his  knife  and  fork  and 
proceeded  with  his  meal. 

It  was  never  wise  to  discuss  parish  matters  with  the 
vicar  during  a  meal.  Either  he  wandered  from  the 
conversation,  or  forgot  the  plate  before  him,  and  it 
was  his  sister's  self-imposed  mission  to  see  that  his 
body  was  properly  nourished.  If  no  meals  were  an- 
nounced for  a  week  on  end,  she  fully  believed  that  he 
would  not  notice  the  omission.  When  rebuked  for  his 
absent-mindedness,  he  would  acknowledge  his  lapse 
with  such  humility  that  Miss  Lipscombe  felt  it  was  she 
and  not  her  brother  who  was  the  guilty  party. 

The  meal  finished,  Miss  Lipscombe  gathered  to- 
gether the  crumbs  from  the  various  plates  and  the 
bread  dish,  cut  up  the  bacon-rind  into  small  pieces  and, 
putting  them  all  on  one  plate,  carried  them  to  the  win- 
dow and  threw  them  on  the  lawn  for  the  birds. 

There  was  a  whirr  of  wings,  and  soon  a  group  of 
starlings,  blackbirds,  thrushes,  sparrows,  together  with 
two  pigeons  and  a  robin  was  busily  engaged  upon 
breakfast. 

"Now,  John,  come  and  smoke  your  pipe  on  the  lawn, 
and  try  and  listen  to  what  I  am  going  to  say,"  said 
Miss  Lipscombe  as  she  picked  up  her  knitting.  With 
an  admonition  to  her  brother  to  mind  the  birds,  she 
assumed  the  old  faded  blue  linen  sun-bonnet  she 
habitually  wore  out-of-doors,  and  passed  quietly 
through  the  windows  so  as  not  to  disturb  her  visitors 
at  their  meal.  The  vicar  wandered  off  to  find  his 
pipe,  which  he  invariably  lost  a  dozen  times  a  day.  A 
few  minutes  later  he  joined  his  sister  on  the  lawn. 

"You  were  saying,  my  dear,"  he  began  tentatively, 
as  he  proceeded  to  fill  the  generous-size  bowl  from  a 
dingy  chamois-leather  tobacco-pouch. 


60  THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

"That  Alfred  Warren  is  back." 

The  vicar  made  no  response,  he  was  busy  with  the 
filling  of  his  pipe. 

"And  Bob  Thirkettle  may  return  any  day,"  she  con- 
tinued, as  if  determined  that  the  full  flavour  of  the 
drama  should  be  reached. 

"An  excellent  fellow,  Thirkettle,"  he  murmured,  as 
he  proceeded  to  light  his  pipe,  "an  excellent  fellow." 

"A  murderous  ruffian,"  repeated  Miss  Lipscombe. 

"My  dear,"  he  expostulated,  "Thirkettle  is  one  of 
the  steadiest — " 

"Do  you  call  it  steady  to  go  about  with  a  gun  threat- 
ening the  life  of  a  fellow  creature?"  she  demanded. 

The  vicar  looked  startled. 

"I  had  forgotten  that,  Hannah,"  he  said  humbly. 
"Yes,"  he  added  a  moment  later,  "that  was  wrong, 
very  wrong." 

"And  what  will  happen  if  Alfred  Warren  meets 
Bob  Thirkettle?"  she  demanded,  pausing  in  her  knit- 
ting to  look  across  at  her  brother. 

"What  will  happen?"  he  repeated  mechanically, 
then,  as  if  with  sudden  inspiration,  he  looked  across  at 
his  sister.  "They  must  shake  hands  and  be  friends, 
Hannah,  they  must  forget  their  differences,"  and  the 
vicar  puffed  peacefully  at  his  pipe,  as  if  he  had  solved 
a  difficult  problem. 

Miss  Lipscombe  dropped  her  knitting  on  her  lap, 
and  sat  gazing  fixedly  across  at  her  brother.  Conscious 
of  her  gaze,  he  fidgeted  like  a  boy  discovered  in  some 
misdemeanour. 

"I'm  sorry,  Hannah,"  he  said  presently.  "Have  I 
said  anything  I  ought  not  to?" 

She  smiled,  a  superior,  loving  smile. 


THE  VICAR  DECIDES  TO  ACT  61 

"Have  you  ever  thought  what  will  happen  to  you, 
John,  when  I  go?"  she  asked. 

"When  you  go,  Hannah?"  he  queried,  startled  in 
spite  of  himself.  "When  you  go  where?" 

"When  I  die,"  she  said  uncompromisingly. 

"My  dear,  you're  not  feeling  unwell,"  he  leaned  for- 
ward anxiously.  "If  so  you  must  see  Crane  at  once,  I 
will — ."  In  his  concern  he  had  half  risen  from  his 
basket-chair. 

"Sit  down,  John." 

At  the  quiet  resolute  order  he  resumed  his  seat. 

"You  are  so  drenched  with  the  milk  of  human  kind- 
ness, John,  that  you  cannot  understand  that  a  man  who 
has  gone  about  with  a  gun,  threatening  to  shoot  another 
man,  cannot  be  expected  when  he  does  meet  him  to 
hold  out  his  hand  and  say,  'How  do  you  do.'  ' 

"True,  true,"  said  the  vicar;  "I  had  not  thought  of 
it  in  that  light,  Hannah.  I  am  sorry;  but  you  are 
quite  sure  you  are  not  ill?"  he  added  after  a  pause. 

"Rubbish!"  she  cried,  as  she  smiled  across  at  him; 
it  was  the  smile  of  a  mother  for  a  child  that  is  unable 
to  look  after  itself. 

"You  have  never  understood  the  Norfolk  character, 
John,"  she  said.  The  Lipscombes  hailed  from  Devon- 
shire. 

"True,"  said  the  vicar.  "A  remarkable  people;  but 
not  English,  Hannah,  not  English.  Scandinavian  in 
origin,"  he  continued  a  moment  later.  "People  of 
strong  passions,  resolute  wills — " 

"There  you  have  expressed  it,"  she  broke  in.  "You 
need  not  go  beyond  that.  When  a  man  of  strong 
passions  threatens  the  life  of  another  man,  it  is  hope- 
less to  expect  them  to  meet  and  be  friends.  Besides 


62  THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

Bob  Thirkettle  has  every  reason  in  the  world  to  hate 
young  Warren." 

"But  it  was  never  proved,"  suggested  the  vicar  in 
the  tone  of  a  man  desirous  of  finding  extenuating  cir- 
cumstances. 

"There  are  some  things  too  obvious  to  require 
proof,"  was  the  grim  retort. 

"True,"  said  the  vicar,  nodding  his  head  slowly. 

"I  will  see  Thirkettle  when  he  returns,  Hannah.  I 
will  reason  with  him.  I  will — " 

"You  had  much  better  see  Alfred  Warren  and  per- 
suade him  to  go  away,"  said  his  sister. 

"Persuade  him  to  go  awav,"  repeated  the  vicar; 
"but,  my  dear,  I  couldn't.  What  would  Lady  Warren 
say  to  me  when  she  comes  back?" 

"What  will  she  say  if  Thirkettle  kills  her  son?"  she 
demanded. 

"Oh!  but  he  mustn't,  he  mustn't,"  he  protested. 
"We  cannot  have  anything — " 

"John,"  she  said,  rising,  "for  unadulterated  unworld- 
liness  recommend  me  the  Rev.  John  Lipscombe  of  Little 
Bilstead,"  and  with  that  she  walked  into  the  house, 
leaving  the  vicar  wondering  what  he  had  said  to  cause 
her  to  put  so  sudden  a  termination  to  their  con- 
versation. 

For  half  an  hour  he  sat  smoking  and  thinking. 
Slowly  there  was  coming  back  to  his  mind  the  memory 
of  that  time,  five  years  ago,  when  Little  Bilstead 
seemed  to  live  in  a  ferment,  when  Robert  Thirkettle 
was  to  be  met  wandering  aimlessly  about  the  country- 
side, a  gun  under  his  arm,  his  face  dark  with  hate. 

To  none  would  he  vouchsafe  a  word  until  one  day 
the  vicar  planted  himself  in  his  path  and,  with  Chris- 


THE  VICAR  DECIDES  TO  ACT  63 

tian  tactlessness,  besought  him  to  remember  that  he 
who  had  a  sin  requiring  forgiveness  had  best  himself 
forgive.  For  a  few  minutes  Thirkettle  had  listened, 
then  he  had  terminated  the  interview  by  saying,  "Give 
over  prating,  sir.  This  is  a  man's  job,  not  a  parson's. 
If  I  get  that  mucky  slink,  I'll  blow  him  to  hell,  the 
varmen,"  and  with  that  he  had  passed  on,  leaving  the 
vicar  staring  after  him  in  astonishment. 

At  the  end  of  half  an  hour  the  vicar  rose  and,  pass- 
ing indoors,  picked  up  his  hat  from  the  hall-table.  As 
he  did  so,  Miss  Lipscombe  came  out  of  the  dining- 
room. 

"I  will  call  and  see  Alfred  Warren,"  he  said. 

"You  might  call  in  and  see  Postle  on  your  way  and 
warn  him  to  be  on  the  look-out,"  she  said  grimly.  John 
Postle  was  the  village  constable. 

"True,  Hannah,"  said  the  vicar,  "it  will  do  no 
harm." 

"With  a  man  like  Bob  Thirkettle,"  she  said,  "a 
policeman  is  better  than  Christian  charity." 

Having  given  vent  to  this  passing  shot,  Miss  Lip- 
scombe went  into  the  kitchen,  leaving  the  vicar  to 
digest  it  as  he  walked  down  the  drive  and  turned  his 
steps  towards  the  village. 

II 

Whilst  the  vicar  and  his  sister  were  discussing  the 
dramatic  possibilities  of  the  return  of  Alfred  Warren, 
Smith  was  enjoying  a  meal  of  which  he  stood  in  con- 
siderable need.  When  at  length  he  leaned  back  in  his 
chair,  it  was  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  has  at  last 
caught  up  with  his  appetite. 

Breakfast    had    not   passed    without    incident.      It 


64  THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

seemed  that  at  every  step  there  was  to  be  some  new 
manifestation  of  the  strange  tastes  of  the  absent 
Alfred. 

The  first  thing  that  had  caught  Smith's  eye  on  seat- 
ing himself  at  the  breakfast-table  was  a  large  decanter 
of  brandy,  flanked  by  a  syphon  of  soda-water.  His  next 
discovery  was  that,  although  Willis  furnished  the 
solids  of  a  really  pukka  meal,  he  seemed  entirely  to 
have  forgotten  the  liquids. 

The  embarrassment  of  the  butler,  when  his  attention 
was  drawn  to  the  fact,  made  it  clear  that  Alfred  passed 
tea  or  coffee  at  breakfast  in  favour  of  brandy-and- 
soda.  It  was  Willis'  hushed  assurance  that  it  was  "the 
sixty-five,  Mr.  Alfred,"  that  convinced  him  of  the  prodi- 
gal's devotion  to  a  hair  from  the  dog  that  had  bitten 
him. 

Smith  was  engaged  in  reviewing  this  and  other  cir- 
cumstances of  the  past  eleven  hours,  with  the  philo- 
sophic detachment  of  a  man  who  can  meet  a  good  meal 
with  an  equally  good  digestion,  when  Willis  entered. 

"Dr.  Crane  would  like  to  see  you,  Mr.  Alfred,  if 
you  have  finished.  I  have  shown  him  into  the  library." 

"Dr.  Crane !"  he  repeated.  "Who  is  Dr.  Crane  and 
why  should  he  want  to  see  me?" 

"He  is  her  Ladyship's  doctor,  sir,"  explained  Willis. 
"Miss  Marjorie  telephoned  for  him." 

"I  see.  Does  he  want  to  go  over  me  with  a  stetho- 
scope, or  is  he  to  assist  in  my  identification  by  mole, 
mark,  or  dimple?" 

"I  don't  know,  sir,"  was  the  grave  reply.  "Perhaps 
Miss  Marjorie  thinks  you  may  have  caught  cold,"  he 
added. 

Smith  had  already  realised  that  Willis  could  be  safely 


THE  VICAR  DECIDES  TO  ACT  65 

looked  upon  to  supply  the  most  charitable  explanation 
possible  for  any  one's  action. 

"You  have  a  kind  heart,  Willis,"  he  remarked,  as 
he  rose. 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Alfred,"  said  Willis  gratefully, 
as  he  held  open  the  door,  and  Smith  passed  out  into 
the  hall. 

No  doubt  the  family  doctor  had  been  summoned  by 
Marjorie,  Smith  decided,  to  advise  her  as  to  what 
action  she  should  take  in  Lady  Warren's  absence.  It 
was  a  little  difficult  to  have  to  meet  an  entire  stranger, 
who,  in  all  probability,  would  insist  on  proclaiming  him 
the  missing  heir.  However,  he  must  go  through  with 
it  now.  He  had  eaten  the  bread  and  salt  of  The 
Grange,  and  now  he  must  make  some  sort  of  effort  to 
disentangle  the  family  skein,  which  Willis  and  Mrs. 
Higgs  seemed  to  have  got  into  a  thoroughly  disordered 
state. 

In  all  probability  Dr.  Crane  would  be  whiskered 
and  pompous,  refer  to  his  parents  as  "we,"  and  insist 
on  going  over  him  with  a  magnifying-glass.  After  all, 
the  stepping  into  another  man's  shoes  was  not  quite  so 
easy  as  it  had  seemed  the  evening  before. 

When  the  butler  threw  open  the  library  door,  Smith 
saw  with  relief  that  the  doctor  was  clean-shaven  and 
human,  with  the  lean,  lithe  poise  of  body  suggestive  of 
a  man  who  took  exercise  and  plenty  of  it. 

In  his  greeting  and  handshake,  Smith  saw  the  doctor 
rather  than  the  man.  Then  there  was  a  perceptible 
pause.  Evidently  Dr.  Crane  was  finding  it  a  little  diffi- 
cult to  begin. 

"You  arrived  last  evening,"  he  said  by  way  of  an 
opening. 


66  THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

"Last  night,  to  be  meticulously  accurate,"  replied 
Smith.  He,  too,  was  weighing-up  his  man.  "I  climbed 
the  gates  of  The  Grange." 

"Miss  Stannard  telephoned  asking  me  to  call,"  said 
Dr.  Crane.  "You  see,  she  is  'n  rather  an  awkward  posi- 
tion, with  Lady  Warren  away." 

"The  position  is  even  more  awkward  than  it  appears 
at  first  sight,"  said  Smith  pleasantly,  and  he  proceeded 
to  explain  exactly  how  matters  stood. 

It  was  something  of  a  relief  to  him  to  find  that 
there  was  some  one  in  Little  Bilstead  who  did  not 
recognise  him  at  sight.  His  satisfaction,  however,  TOas 
modified  to  some  extent  by  Dr.  Crane's  explanation 
that  he  had  acquired  his  present  practice  only  some 
four  years  previously. 

"Then  you  won't  be  able  to  establish  my  identity  by 
the  shape  of  my  finger-nails?"  he  enquired. 

"I'm  afraid  not,"  was  the  grave  reply.  It  was  clear 
to  Smith  that  he  had  yet  to  convince  the  medico  that 
he  was  not  Alfred  Warren. 

There  was  a  pause.  Dr.  Crane  glanced  from  time 
to  time  across  at  Smith,  as  if  weighing  the  pros  and 
cons  of  the  case. 

"It  is  obvious  that  you  do  not  accept  mv  story," 
Smith  said  at  length. 

Dr.  Crane  gazed  at  him  steadily  for  nearly  a  minute. 

"I  would  not  say  that,"  he  said  at  length.  "I  un- 
derstand from  Miss  Stannard  that  you  have  lost  your 
memory." 

"That's  merely  Willis'  idea  to  account  for  my  not 
proclaiming  myself  the  returned  prodigal,"  explained 
Smith. 

Dr.  Crane  nodded. 


THE  VICAR  DECIDES  TO  ACT  67 

"There  is  Lady  Warren  to  consider,"  he  said. 
"Somebody  is  sure  to  write  and  tell  her,  and  then — " 
he  paused. 

"If  I  disappear  it  will  complicate  matters,"  sug- 
gested Smith. 

"Exactly." 

"And  if  I  stay  I  shall  probably  get  into  the  very 
deuce  of  a  mess  all  round." 

"In  all  probability  you  will,"  was  the  dry  retort. 

"And  what  would  you  advise?"  enquired  Smith. 

There  was  another  long  pause.  Dr.  Crane  was 
obviously  a  man  who  thought  before  he  spoke. 

"It  is  a  matter  on  which  I  cannot  advise,"  he  said 
at  length. 

"Is  it  possible  for  two  men  to  be  so  much  alike  as  to 
deceive  even  their  most  intimate  friends  and  rela- 
tives?" 

"It  is  rare;  but  I  should  say  it  is  possible,"  was  the 
doctor's  reply.  "In  such  matters  we  can  judge  only 
from  what  we  know  has  taken  place." 

"There  was  the  Adolf  Beck  case,  for  instance,  where 
every  mark  on  the  body  of  both  men  was  known  and 
recorded;  yet  twice  Adolf  Beck  was  convicted  of  crimes 
that  are  known  now  to  have  been  committed  by  his 
double,  a  man  named  Smith,  by  the  way.  Then  I  saw 
it  stated  in  the  papers  some  time  back,  that  a  woman 
had  applied  to  a  magistrate  saying  that  she  was  doubt- 
ful if  it  really  were  her  husband  who  had  returned 
from  the  war,  and  with  whom  she  had  been  living  for 
three  months." 

Dr.  Crane  nodded. 

"Again  there  was  the  case  of  a  man,  also  a  Smith, 
who  murdered  women  in  baths,"  he  continued.  "One 


68  THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

woman  identified  him  as  her  husband;  yet  months  later 
her  real  husband  turned  up  and  she  recanted  in  the 

High  Courts." 

"I  remember,"  said  Dr.  Crane,  with  the  inevitable 
nod.  "But  why  not  establish  your  own  identity?"  he 
suggested,  turning  to  Smith  a  gaze  of  keen  professional 
appraisement. 

"That  is  just  what  I  am  not  prepared  to  do  at  the 
moment,"  was  the  quiet  reply. 

"It  puts  you  in  a  false  position." 

"It  does,"  agreed  Smith.  t     ^ 

"It  might  even  involve  you  in  certain  difficulties, 
suggested  Dr.  Crane. 

"It  has  already,"  said  Smith,  with  a  smile,  as  he  re- 
called the  episode  of  the  night  before,  "and  I  have 
every  reason  to  assume  there  are  more  to  come,"  he 
added. 

"Why?"     The  interrogation  came  like  the  snap  of 

a  pistol-trigger. 

"Because  I  have  been  here  long  enough  to  get  a 
general  idea  that  Alfred  Warren  led  a  fairly  hectic 
life." 

Once  more  Dr.  Crane's  head  moved  up  and  down 
like  that  of  a  mandarin. 

"I  want  you  to  tell  me  frankly  what  you  advise," 
said  Smith.  "Couldn't  you  cable  to  Lady  Warren?" 

The  doctor  shook  his  head. 

"The  shock  would  be  too  great,"  he  said.  "It  might 
kill  her." 

"And  your  advice?" 

"Do  you  ask  it  professionally,  or  as  man  to  man?" 

"As  man  to  man." 

"I  advise  you  to  clear  out,"  came  the  prompt  reply, 


THE  VICAR  DECIDES  TO  ACT  69 

"and  I  shouldn't  lose  any  time  about  it  if  I  were  you," 
he  added. 

Smith  was  startled  by  the  decisiveness  of  the  tone  in 
which  the  advice  was  given.  It  was  obvious  from  the 
doctor's  manner  that  the  position  was  a  serious  one. 
Perhaps,  after  all,  it  would  be  the  best  thing  to  get 
away  from  what  might  involve  him  in  serious  diffi- 
culties. 

"Why?"  he  demanded. 

The  other  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  the  air  of  a 
man  who  has  said  all  he  intends  to  say. 

Smith  walked  over  to  the  French  windows,  and  gazed 
out  upon  the  lawn  where  a  starling  was  strutting  about, 
as  if  trying  to  impress  upon  everybody  that  he  had  not 
over-slept. 

Suddenly  Smith  heard  Marjorie's  voice  asking  Willis 
something  about  a  bowl  of  roses.  Decision  came  to 
him  with  a  flash  of  inspiration. 

"I'll  be  damned  if  I  do!"  he  said,  turning  to  Dr. 
Crane. 

"That  is  inevitable,  in  any  case,"  was  the  grim 
retort. 


CHAPTER  V 

LITTLE  BILSTEAD  RECEIVES  A  SHOCK 

MATTERS  were  becoming  interesting,  and  there 
was   certainly  the   promise   of   drama   later, 
Smith  decided,  as  he  walked  down  the  drive 
of  The  Grange  a  few  minutes  after  Dr.  Crane  had 
taken  his  departure. 

Why  had  the  medico  been  so  uncommunicative? 
Why  had  he  not  been  frank  with  him,  and  given  some 
idea  of  what  it  was  he  was  up  against? 

Only  once  had  the  man  triumphed  over  the  general 
practitioner,  when  he  had  referred  to  the  inevitable 
damnation  of  Alfred.  Why?  Did  he  know  too  much, 
or  was  what  he  did  know  so  bad  that  he  was  fearful  of 
becoming  mixed-up  in  a  scandal? 

In  any  case  no  man  could  desire  a  situation  more 
promising  in  exciting  possibilities. 

As  he  passed  through  the  iron  gates,  Smith  glanced 
up  to  see  if  any  portion  of  his  rain-coat  still  clung  to 
them,  as  evidence  of  his  unconventional  entry;  but 
some  one  had  evidently  collected  the  clues. 

Following  Willis'  instructions,  he  turned  to  the  left 
in  the  direction  of  the  village,  conscious  of  a  curious 
feeling  of  expectancy. 

After  the  departure  of  Dr.  Crane,  and  left  to  his 
own  resources,  Smith  had  decided  upon  a  visit  of  ex- 
ploration, with  the  object  of  giving  the  villagers  a 
chance  of  passing  judgment  upon  his  likeness  to  Alfred 

Warren. 

70 


LITTLE  BILSTEAD  RECEIVES  A  SHOCK        71 

He  had  heard  of  men  completely  forgetting  their 
own  identity,  or  who  had  deliberately  traded  upon  the 
likeness  they  bore  to  others.  Never,  however,  had  he 
heard  of  any  one  being  plunged  into  such  a  position  as 
that  in  which  he  now  found  himself. 

There  was  Adolf  Beck,  as  he  had  remarked  to  Dr. 
Crane;  but  that  proved  nothing  beyond  the  fact  that 
one  man  could  be  so  like  another  as  to  have  his  identity 
sworn  away  by  a  score  of  witnesses  including  prison- 
warders  in  whose  charge  he  had  been  for  months  at  a 
time. 

The  dramatic  possibilities  of  the  situation  were  end- 
less. Clearly  there  was  some  mystery  about  the 
original  Alfred,  an  unsavoury  mystery  he  decided,  judg- 
ing from  the  embarrassment  of  Willis  and  Mrs.  Higgs, 
and  the  curious  attitude  of  Dr.  Crane. 

If  Alfred  Warren  had  done  anything  which  rendered 
him  amenable  to  the  law,  then  the  possibilities  might 
become  something  more  than  merely  dramatic.  What 
if  he  were  secretly  married?  He  shuddered  at  the 
thought. 

Through  no  merit  of  his  own,  he  had  acquired  a  new 
mother,  now  mercifully  some  two  or  three  thousand 
miles  away;  but  a  hitherto  unknown  "wife !"  He  won- 
dered how  it  would  feel  to  be  claimed  as  a  long-lost 
husband. 

One  thing  was  clear,  he  could  not  continue  at  The 
Grange.  He  could  swear  an  affidavit  that  he  was  not 
Alfred  Warren,  it  was  true;  but  a  judge  might  not  un- 
reasonably enquire  why  he  had  continued  to  occupy  an 
obviously  false  and  invidious  position.  He  could  not 
appeal  to  the  Courts  to  restrain  people  from  identify- 
ing him  as  Alfred  Warren.  The  obvious  thing  was  to 


72  THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

make  a  bolt  of  it;  but,  somehow  or  other,  that  was  the 
last  thing  he  desired  to  do. 

It  was  all  very  ridiculous,  he  decided  as,  plucking  a 
long  blade  of  grass,  he  hoisted  himself  upon  a  gate 
giving  access  to  a  meadow,  and  proceeded  to  clean  his 
pipe  with  the  leisurely  deliberation  of  an  inveterate 
smoker.  After  all,  the  situation  might  develop  quite 
naturally  and  pleasantly,  although  at  the  moment  he 
had  to  admit  the  portents  were  not  favourable. 

He  was  roused  from  his  thoughts  and  the  enjoyment 
of  his  pipe  by  the  sound  of  approaching  footsteps. 
Coming  towards  him  from  the  direction  of  Little  Bil- 
stead  were  two  quaint  little  figures  engaged  apparently 
in  an  animated  discussion.  They  looked  as  if  they 
might  have  stepped  straight  out  of  a  Jane  Austen  novel. 
They  appeared  to  be  discussing  some  topic  of  absorb- 
ing interest  upon  which  they  were  not  in  entire  agree- 
ment. 

When  within  a  few  yards  of  the  gate  on  which  he 
sat,  the  one  nearer  to  him  glanced  in  his  direction.  She 
started,  paused,  then  stopped  dead.  The  other,  fol- 
lowing the  direction  of  her  companion's  gaze,  paused 
in  turn,  then,  seizing  the  arm  of  the  first,  hurried  her 
along. 

As  she  who  had  first  seen  Smith  passed,  she  bowed 
slightly,  with  a  nervous,  apprehensive  side-glance  at 
her  companion.  Smith  lifted  his  cap  and,  a  minute 
later,  they  passed  out  of  sight  round  the  bend  in  the 
road.  He  watched  them  disappear  from  view.  Obvi- 
ously the  one  who  had  bowed  was  getting  it  in  the  neck. 

For  some  minutes  he  sat  speculating  as  to  the  identity 
of  the  two  quaint  little  ladies.  Who  could  they  be? 
Why  had  one  hesitatingly  acknowledged  him,  whilst 
the  other  ignored  him  altogether?  Were  they  involved 


LITTLE  BILSTEAD  RECEIVES  A  SHOCK        73 

in  some  family  feud  with  the  Warrens,  or  was  their 
attitude  typical  of  what  he  might  expect  from  Little 
Bilstead  society?  In  any  case,  he  told  himself  as  he 
slid  from  the  gate,  the  true  humour  of  the  situation 
would  develop  later. 

He  had  been  walking  for  about  five  minutes  enjoy- 
ing the  warmth  of  the  sunshine,  when,  a  few  yards 
ahead  of  him  there  turned  out  from  a  heavily-rutted 
lane  a  man  in  labourer's  corduroys  carrying  a  pick  and 
a  spade  over  his  shoulder.  At  the  sight  of  Smith  his 
jaw  dropped,  and  he  stared  to  the  full  extent  of  his 
eyes. 

"Well,  I'll  be  grimed!"  he  stuttered  at  length, 
swinging  the  pick  and  spade  from  his  shoulder  and  rest- 
ing them  on  the  roadway.  "If  it  aren't  Mist'  Alfred," 
and  he  broke  into  an  evil  ripple  of  mirthless  chuckles. 
"Mist'  Alfred!"  he  repeated.  "Well,  I'll  be  grimed." 

Incredibly  dirty,  bent  and  misshapen,  he  seemed  the 
embodiment  of  evil  as  he  stood,  his  slobbering  lips  set 
in  a  sinister  leer,  his  shifty  little  eyes  fixed  on  Smith, 
who  had  involuntarily  come  to  a  standstill. 

"You  'ave  got  a  nerve,  mister,"  he  said  at  length, 
gazing  up  at  Smith.  "You  'ave  got  a  nerve,"  he  re- 
peated, as  if  finding  satisfaction  in  the  words. 

"You  think  so?"  remarked  Smith  easily,  as  he  looked 
down  at  the  sinister  figure  before  him. 

The  man's  stoop  threw  his  head  forward  and,  as  he 
gazed  up  at  Smith,  he  looked  strangely  like  a  toad. 

"I  do,"  was  the  response,  uttered  with  an  air  of  con- 
viction; "but  there,  you  always  was  a  rum  'un";  and 
there  was  grudging  admiration  in  the  man's  tone. 

"So  you  think  I  am  Mr.  Warren?"  enquired  Smith 
calmly. 

"Think!"  repeated  the  man.     "I  'aven't  no  need  to 


74  THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

think.  You  wait  till  old  Bob  Thirkettle  gets  back, 
then  you'll  cop  it  a  rum  'un.  He's  going  to  give  you 
cosh.  Used  to  go  about  with  a  gun  for  months,  he 
did,  and  here  you  be  a-comin'  back.  Well,  you  'ave 
got  a  nerve." 

"And  who  is  Bob  Thirkettle?"  asked  Smith,  sensing 
revelations  from  the  man's  dark  hints. 

"Who's  Bob  Thirkettle!"  Again  he  broke  into  a 
slobber  of  chuckles.  "I  fare  to  think  you'll  know  all 
about  who  Bob  Thirkettle  is  when  he  comes  back.  He 
ain't  forgot  what  you  done  to  his  mawther." 

"Mawther,"  repeated  Smith  in  a  puzzled  tone. 
"What  is  a  mawther?" 

"Ho!  ho!  ho!"  cackled  the  man.  "What's  a 
mawther?  So  you  come  back,  Mist'  Alfred,  and  don't 
know  the  meanin'  o'  good  Norfolk.  You  wait  till  old 
Bob  gets  back.  He'll  kill  you,  Mist'  Alfred,  sure  as 
you're  there,"  he  added  with  satisfied  conviction. 

"And  when  will  he  be  back?"  asked  Smith. 

"Ho  I  ho !  ho !"  A  cunning  glint  sprang  into  the 
man's  eyes.  "I  beant  going  to  tell  you,  or  you'll  just 
hike  off,  I  know  you — That's  what  you  did  afore,"  he 
added,  as  he  swung  his  pick  and  spade  once  more  upon 
his  right  shoulder.  "Fare  you  well,  Mist'  Alfred,"  and 
then,  as  if  a  sudden  thought  had  struck  him,  he  added: 
"I  suppose  you  don't  know  who  I  be?" 

"I  haven't  the  foggiest  idea." 

"Don't  know  Tom  Simmons,  don't  you  ?  I  suppose 
you've  forgotten  about  the  whisky,"  and  he  leered  up 
at  Smith  from  under  his  hat  brim. 

"I  suppose  I  must,  as  I  have  no  recollection,  either 
of  you  or  of  the  whisky." 

"Well,  I'll  be  grimed,"  exclaimed  Simmons.     "If 


LITTLE  BILSTEAD  RECEIVES  A  SHOCK        75 

that  ain't  a  good  'un.  Well,  I  must  be  getting  along, 
Mist'  Alfred,"  he  said,  with  a  tinge  of  respect  in  his 
voice.  "Fare  you  well;  but  you  wait  till  old  Bob  gets 
you,"  and  he  shuffled  off,  murmuring,  "Who's  old  Bob's 
mawther?  Well,  if  that  ain't  a  good  'un." 

Smith  continued  on  his  way,  his  opinion  of  Alfred's 
unpopularity  confirmed.  He  reached  the  village  with- 
out further  incident,  apart  from  the  fact  that  two 
labourers  had  saluted  and  stared  at  him  as  if  he  were 
an  apparition;  but  he  took  that  merely  to  indicate  the 
courtesies  of  the  countryside. 

Little  Bilstead  consisted  of  a  spatter  of  houses  and 
shops  lying  in  a  slight  fold  of  the  ground,  on  either  side 
of  the  main  road.  It  seemed  a  disappointing  place, 
neither  populous,  nor  picturesque.  There  were  two  or 
three  people  to  be  seen;  but  the  general  atmosphere 
was  one  of  intense  somnolence. 

He  walked  through  the  village,  past  the  post-office, 
and  general  store,  and  an  insignificant  little  inn  called 
The  Pigeons,  from  the  door  of  which  came  the  smell 
of  rank  tobacco  smoke  and  stale  beer,  tainting  the 
sweetness  of  the  morning  air. 

Several  people  seemed  to  appear  from  nowhere,  and 
stood  staring  at  him,  just  as  the  evil  old  man  had 
stared  a  few  minutes  previously. 

As  no  one  saluted,  or  made  any  move  to  accost  him, 
he  walked  leisurely  on.  Continuing  along  the  main 
road,  he  strove  to  evolve  something  like  a  definite 
course  of  action  from  the  tangle  of  his  thoughts.  Wis- 
dom told  him  that  the  best  thing  to  do  was  to  leave 
Alfred  Warren  and  Little  Bilstead — the  one  to  his 
destiny,  the  other  to  its  dulness.  There  was  something 
else,  however,  that  bade  him  see  the  thing  through. 


76  THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

He  had  all  the  time  there  was,  as  the  Americans  say, 
why  not  stay  on  for  a  few  days  and  see  what  Drama 
really  had  in  her  pouch  ? 

At  the  end  of  an  hour  he  turned  and  retraced  his 
steps.  As  he  neared  Little  Bilstead  again,  he  found 
himself  more  than  ever  reluctant  to  abandon  what 
promised  to  afford  an  interesting,  not  to  say  exciting, 
adventure. 

As  he  entered  the  village  for  the  second  time,  it  was 
obvious  that  unseen  eyes  had  been  on  the  watch. 

The  whole  place  seemed  suddenly  to  have  come  to 
life.  Groups  of  women  stood  at  their  doors,  and  there 
was  a  generous  sprinkling  of  men. 

As  Smith  approached  they  seemed  all  to  be  smitten 
with  a  great  silence.  Some  saluted  him  as  "Mist'  Al- 
fred"; but  there  was  no  cordiality  in  either  their  looks 
or  their  words. 

At  the  door  of  The  Pigeons  stood  a  big  man  with  a 
bald  head  surrounded  by  a  fringe  of  sandy  hair,  a 
heavily  jowled  face,  with  small  pig-like  eyes  destitute 
of  lashes. 

"Morning,  Mist'  Alfred,"  he  called  out  when  Smith 
was  within  a  pace  or  two  of  him. 

Smith  nodded  and  paused. 

"Surprising  seeing  you  back,"  said  the  man. 

For  a  moment  Smith  hesitated  as  to  whether  or  no 
he  should  enlighten  the  fellow  as  to  his  real  identity; 
but  he  decided  that  it  would  be  useless  to  do  so;  for 
wherever  he  went  he  was  accepted  as  "Mr.  Alfred" 
without  question. 

"Seen  Bob  Thirkettle?"  enquired  the  man  with  a 
sly  look  in  his  little  eyes. 

"Bob  Thirkettle,"  repeated  Smith.    "No,  who's  he? 


LITTLE  BILSTEAD  RECEIVES  A  SHOCK        77 

I  saw  a  queer  old  fellow  on  the  hill;  but  he  said  his 
name  was  Tom  Simmons." 

The  man  took  his  clay  pipe  from  his  mouth  and 
stared  at  Smith  in  frank  amazement. 

"Oh!  Give  over,  Mist'  Alfred,"  he  cried.  "There 
aren't  narthen'  to  joke  about,  that's  a  sure  moral." 

There  was  something  in  the  man's  manner  that 
prompted  Smith  to  pass  on  with  a  curt  nod.  Things 
were  becoming  quite  interesting,  he  decided,  as  he 
walked  slowly  in  the  direction  of  The  Grange. 

"What  about  Bob  Thirkettle's  mawther?" 

The  suddenness  of  the  cry  from  behind  caused  him 
to  start  perceptibly,  otherwise  he  took  no  notice,  and 
the  cry  was  not  repeated.  The  attitude  of  the  villagers 
made  it  clear  that,  whatever  Alfred  Warren's  popu- 
larity with  the  servants  at  The  Grange,  there  was 
obviously  some  very  good  reason  why  he  had  left  Little 
Bilstead,  and  an  even  better  one  for  his  not  returning. 

Everything  seemed  to  turn  upon  old  Bob's  mawther, 
whatever  that  might  mean.  Possibly  Willis  would  be 
able  to  enlighten  him.  He  did  not  attach  serious  im- 
portance to  the  statement  that  Bob  Thirkettle,  who- 
ever he  might  be,  really  threatened  his  life;  still  an 
encounter  between  them  would  inevitably  result  in 
awkwardness,  if  not  in  an  open  breach  of  the  peace. 

What  puzzled  him  most  was  that  in  his  own  house- 
hold Alfred  Warren  had  apparently  been  idolised;  but 
outside  his  immediate  circle  he  appeared  to  be  ex- 
tremely unpopular. 

When  clear  of  the  village,  he  suddenly  became  aware 
that  a  short  distance  ahead  of  him  was  a  tall,  bent  form 
garbed  in  clerical  black.  With  hands  clasped  behind 
him,  head  bent  forward,  and  a  large  green  umbrella 


78  THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

thrust  under  his  left  arm,  he  gave  the  impression  of  one 
whose  thoughts  were  far  away. 

Smith  increased  his  pace  slightly,  making  as  much 
noise  as  he  could  in  order  to  attract  the  old  man's  atten- 
tion. He  drew  level  and,  for  nearly  a  minute,  walked 
abreast;  but  the  vicar's  thoughts  were  far  away  from 
Little  Bilstead. 

"Good  morning,  sir,"  he  said  at  length. 

The  effect  upon  the  vicar  was  that  of  a  Dumdum 
bullet — it  stopped  him;  but  with  a  suddenness  for  which 
Smith  was  entirely  unprepared. 

"Why,  it's,  it's — "  the  old  man  stopped,  as  if  search- 
ing the  records  of  his  memory  for  Smith's  identity. 

"My  name  is  Smith,  sir,  James  Smith;  but  I'm  sup- 
posed to  be  rather  like — " 

"Bless  my  soul!"  broke  in  the  vicar.  "It's  Alfred 
Warren,"  and,  dropping  his  green  umbrella  into  the 
road,  he  clasped  Smith's  hand  with  both  his  own,  and 
shook  it  warmly. 

"Hannah  said  you  were  back,"  he  said,  still  working 
Smith's  hand  up  and  down.  "In  fact,  I  came  out  to 
look  for  you,  I've  just  remembered,"  and  he  gazed  at 
Smith  with  near-sighted  blue  eyes  as  if  expecting  a 
rebuke. 

"I  knew  there  was  something,"  he  added,  as  if  by 
way  of  extenuation.  "I'm  very  forgetful,"  he  con- 
tinued, "terribly  forgetful.  I  would  write  to  the  bishop ; 
but  Hannah  says  no." 

"But  I  am  not  really  Alfred  Warren.     You  see — " 

"Hannah  will  be  delighted,  she  will  want  to  see  you. 
She — "  He  paused,  as  if  something  had  just  occurred 
to  him  casting  doubt  upon  the  greatness  of  Hannah's 
joy.  "You  remember  Hannah,"  continued  the  vicar. 


LITTLE  BILSTEAD  RECEIVES  A  SHOCK        79 

"A  wonderful  manager,  they  call  her  the  curate  in  the 
village." 

"Hannah!"  repeated  Smith.     "I'm  afraid—" 

"My  sister,"  explained  the  vicar.  "We  were  talk- 
ing about  you  at  breakfast.  That  is  why  I  came  out  to 
warn  you  about — "  He  paused,  in  his  eyes  the  puzzled 
expression  of  the  man  who  has  forgotten. 

"I  was  saying,  sir,  that  I  am  not  Alfred  Warren. 
My  name  is  Smith,  James  Smith.  We  must  be  very 
much  alike." 

Smith  was  conscious  how  stilted  his  words  sounded. 
As  a  diversion  he  stooped  and  picked  up  the  vicar's 
umbrella,  which  seemed  to  bring  back  to  the  old  man 
a  realisation  of  his  mission. 

Dropping  Smith's  hand,  he  took  the  proffered  um- 
brella and  thrust  it  beneath  his  left  arm. 

"And  now  you  must  come  and  see  Hannah,"  he  said. 
"She  will  explain  what  it  was  I  came  to  tell  you.  She 
will  be  delighted  to  see  you." 

Judging  by  the  expression  on  the  faces  of  the  two 
old  ladies  he  had  met  that  morning,  Smith  felt  doubt- 
ful as  to  the  accuracy  of  the  prophecy. 

"I'm  afraid  I  have  to  go — "  he  paused;  but  the  vicar 
proved  himself  a  man  of  action. 

Transferring  the  umbrella  to  his  right  arm,  he  linked 
his  left  through  Smith's  and,  a  moment  later,  was  strid- 
ing along,  once  more  apparently  lost  in  thought. 

Smith  had  perforce  to  keep  pace  with  him.  He 
could  not  tear  himself  away  from  the  old  man's  friendly 
grasp,  and  there  seemed  nothing  for  it  but  to  acquiesce 
in  the  vicar's  determination  to  take  him  to  Hannah. 

At  the  end  of  five  minutes,  the  vicar  suddenly  swung 
round  and,  before  Smith  knew  what  was  happening,  he 


80  THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

had  entered  a  gate-way  and  was  walking  up  a  drive, 
obviously  leading  to  the  vicarage. 

A  minute  later  they  passed  through  the  French  win- 
dows into  the  drawing-room,  where  the  vicar  left  him 
with  a  murmured  excuse  that  he  would  "go  and  find 
Hannah." 

It  was  a  bright  and  cheerful  room  and,  with  a  sigh 
of  content,  Smith  dropped  into  a  comfortable-looking 
chair.  He  was  feeling  pleasantly  tired  with  his  walk, 
and  after  the  warm  sun  without,  the  coolness  of  the 
vicarage  drawing-room  was  peculiarly  soothing. 

Somewhere  in  the  distance  a  door  banged,  and  then 
the  heavy  silence  of  a  summer  mid-day  descended  upon 
the  room,  broken  only  by  the  loud  ticking  of  the  ormolu 
clock  upon  the  marble  mantelpiece. 

Five  minutes  lengthened  into  ten,  ten  minutes  into  a 
quarter-of-an-hour,  a  quarter-of-an-hour  into  half-an- 
hour,  and  still  no  vicar.  Obviously  the  absent-minded 
cleric  had  forgotten  about  him,  and  in  all  probability 
was  deep  in  the  composition  of  Sunday's  sermon.  Still, 
it  was  very  restful,  and  time  was  to  him  of  no  object — 

Suddenly  he  sat  upright  and  blinked  several  times 
at  a  tall  spare  woman  with  calm  grey  eyes  and  a  firm 
mouth,  who  stood  gazing  down  at  him.  A  moment 
later  he  had  scrambled  to  his  feet.  As  he  did  so  he 
caught  sight  of  the  dial  of  the  ormolu  clock — its  hands 
chronicled  that  just  an  hour  had  elapsed  since  he  had 
entered  the  room. 

"I'm — I'm  afraid  I  was  asleep,"  he  apologised. 

"Did  Janet  show  you  in  here?"  asked  the  owner  of 
the  grey  eyes. 

"No,  the  vicar,"  smiled  Smith,  realising  that  he  had 
indeed  forgotten. 


LITTLE  BILSTEAD  RECEIVES  A  SHOCK        81 

"My  brother  is  very  forgetful.  I  must  apologise," 
she  said  as  she  extended  her  hand.  "Have  you  been 
here  long?  We  heard  you  were  back." 

"An  hour,"  said  Smith,  taking  the  long,  tapering 
hand  in  his,  "and  I  am  not  Alfred  Warren,"  he  added. 

With  a  motion  of  her  head,  she  bade  him  resume 
his  chair,  seating  herself  upon  a  high-backed  chair 
opposite.  For  some  seconds  she  sat  eyeing  him 
steadily. 

"Not  Alfred  Warren?"  she  said  at  length,  and 
Smith  realised  from  her  tone  that  another  had  gone 
over,  bag  and  baggage,  to  the  enemy. 

"I  am  in  a  most  unhappy  position,"  he  continued, 
wishing  he  could  remember  the  vicar's  name,  Willis  had 
mentioned  it.  "Every  one  here  insists  that  I  am  Alfred 
Warren,  and  it's — a  little  embarrassing,"  he  concluded 
lamely. 

For  fully  a  minute  Miss  Lipscombe  sat  regarding 
him  with  a  keen  steady  gaze,  as  if  intent  upon  seeing 
right  into  his  soul. 

"My  brother  recognised  you?"  she  queried  at  length. 

"In  a  flash,"  he  replied  gloomily.  "Everybody  does. 
That's  what  makes  it  all  so  embarrassing.  May  I  tell 
you  the  whole  story?"  he  added.  There  was  something 
about  her  that  inspired  confidence. 

She  nodded.  Miss  Lipscombe  was  notorious  for  her 
economy  in  words  upon  certain  occasions.  In  the  vil- 
lage it  exercised  an  excellent  effect;  for,  with  every 
wrong  thought  that  entered  a  Little  Bilsteadian  brain, 
was  a  vision  of  the  grey  eyes  and  steady  gaze  of  the 
vicar's  sister. 

In  as  few  words  as  possible,  Smith  told  of  the  hap- 
penings of  the  last  twelve  hours,  omitting  all  mention 


82  THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

of  the  reference  to  Bob  Thirkettle's  mawther — he  must 
first  find  out  what  a  mawther  actually  was. 

At  the  end  of  his  recital,  Miss  Lipscombe  was  still 
gazing  straight  into  his  eyes. 

"And  now,"  he  added  with  a  smile,  "if  you  go  over 
to  the  Warrenites,  I  shall  feel  that  I  am  in  a  hopeless 
position." 

"But  why  not  prove  who  you  are?"  she  asked. 

"Because  there  are  reasons  why  I  can  tell  you  only 
that  I  am  plain  James  Smith,"  he  replied  gravely. 
"That  is  not  my  real  name,"  he  added  hastily.  "I  think 
I  ought  to  tell  you  that;  but  it  will  serve  for  the  time 
being." 

"The  likeness  is  remarkable,"  she  remarked,  still 
fixing  him  with  her  keen  grey  eyes. 

"But  surely — "  he  began,  and  then  paused.  It 
seemed  mean  to  call  attention  to  the  weaknesses  of 
Alfred  Warren's  character  by  enquiring  if  it  were  not 
stamped  upon  his  features. 

"There  are  no  differences  that  could  not  be  accounted 
for  by  six  years  of  changed — "  she  paused  as  if  search- 
ing for  the  correct  word. 

"Environment?"  he  suggested,  relieved  that  she 
should  have  read  his  thoughts  aright. 

She  nodded. 

"That  is  what  has  puzzled  me,"  he  said,  feeling 
that  her  remark  had  established  a  bond  between  them. 
She  was  obviously  a  clear  thinker  and  a  sound  reasoner. 

"Six  years  change  a  man,"  she  remarked  musingly. 
"You  look  stronger  and  harder,  both  mentally  and 
physically.  You  served  during  the  war?" 

"Every  hour  of  it,"  he  said  simply. 

'"Physical  discipline  begets  moral  and  mental  dis- 


LITTLE  BILSTEAD  RECEIVES  A  SHOCK        83 

cipline,"  she  remarked,  still  as  if  to  herself  rather  than 
to  him. 

Again  Smith  saw  the  straw  at  which  he  was  clutch- 
ing about  to  be  swept  beyond  his  reach. 

"You  had  better  come  and  stay  at  the  vicarage." 

At  this  startling  announcement,  he  sat  bolt  upright. 

"Stay  at  the  vicarage!"  he  repeated.     "Why?" 

"You  cannot  very  well  continue  at  The  Grange 
whilst  disclaiming  your  identity." 

"The  identity  of  Alfred  Warren,"  he  corrected  her 
gently. 

"It  amounts  to  the  same  thing,"  she  replied  grimly. 
"You  had  better  arrange  with  Willis  to  send  your  things 
over,"  she  added  practically.  "And  now  I  must  go  and 
see  about  my  brother's  luncheon,"  and  she  rose. 

"So  you  won't  believe  in  me  as  James  Smith,"  he 
said  as  he  rose. 

"I  preserve  an  open  mind,"  was  the  response,  as  they 
stood  facing  one  another,  each  trying  to  read  beyond 
the  reserve-barrier  of  cultured  people. 

"I  give  you  my  word  that  I  am  not  Alfred  Warren," 
he  said  quietly. 

"We  dine  at  half-past  seven,"  was  the  reply;  but 
the  firm  line  of  her  mouth  broke,  and  Smith  realised 
that  she  had  indeed  an  open  mind. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE   STRANGENESS   OF   MARJORIE 


ON  his  return  to  The  Grange,  Smith  immediately 
went  in  search  of  Willis,  finally  running  him  to 
earth  in  Alfred's  bedroom. 

As  he  entered,  the  old  man  turned,  a  trouser- 
stretcher  in  his  hand. 

"I've  been  looking  for  you  everywhere,  Willis." 
"I'm  sorry,  Mr.  Alfred,  if  I  wasn't—" 
"Oh !  it's  all  right,"  said  Smith,  sinking  into  a  chair, 
striking  a  match  and  proceeding  to  light  a  cigarette. 
"What  do  the  Little  Bilsteadians  mean  by  Bob  Thir- 
kettle's  mawther?" 

With  a  crash  the  trouser-stretcher  fell  to  the  floor. 
At  the  sight  of  Willis'  face,  Smith  sprang  to  his  feet 
and  went  over  to  him.  In  a  flash  the  butler  seemed  to 
have  become  ten  years  older.  He  was  trembling  vio- 
lently, the  colour  had  gone  from  his  face,  and  in  his 
eyes  there  was  fear.  He  appeared  on  the  point  of  col- 
lapse, and  Smith  led  him  over  to  the  chair  which  he 
himself  had  just  vacated.  Fetching  a  glass  of  water, 
he  held  it  to  Willis'  grey  lips. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,"  he  said  soothingly,  as  the  butler 
swallowed  a  little  of  the  water,  gazing  with  wide-open 
eyes  at  Smith  as  he  did  so.  "I  didn't  mean  to  upset 
you." 

84 


THE  STRANGENESS  OF  MARJORIE  85 

Willis  lay  back  in  the  chair  with  closed  eyes,  as  if  de- 
sirous of  shutting  out  something. 

Smith  forced  him  to  drink  some  whisky  and  water, 
and  presently  the  colour  began  to  come  back  to  his  grey 
cheeks. 

Smith  studiously  avoided  any  further  reference  to 
the  cause  of  the  butler's  collapse,  and  when  he  even- 
tually left  the  room  it  was  with  strict  injunctions  to 
Willis  to  remain  where  he  was  until  quite  recovered. 
He  had  a  feeling  that  his  presence  acted  only  as  a  re- 
minder of  the  shock  the  old  man  had  suffered. 

The  return  of  the  modern  prodigal  was  not  without 
its  attendant  excitements,  was  Smith's  thought,  as  he 
descended  the  stairs.  He  must  at  all  costs  find  out  the 
meaning  of  the  word  "mawther,"  a  term  that  appeared 
to  be  full  of  sinister  menace,  judging  from  the  evil  leer 
with  which  the  old  road-mender  had  uttered  it,  the  fact 
that  it  had  been  shouted  after  him  in  the  village,  and 
the  distress  shown  by  Willis  on  hearing  it  repeated. 

Refilling  and  lighting  his  pipe,  he  made  his  way 
round  to  the  stables,  where  he  hoped  to  encounter 
some  one  from  whom  he  could  obtain  the  information 
he  sought.  He  heard  sounds  issuing  from  the  harness- 
room,  first  a  hissing,  dear  to  the  heart  of  the  horse- 
keeper,  followed  by  a  few  shrilly  whistled  bars  of  an 
air  he  did  not  recognise.  These  suddenly  developed 
into  a  song  in  a  high,  but  not  unmelodious  tenor. 

Walking  across  the  yard,  Smith  looked  in  at  the 
open  door.  As  he  did  so,  the  song  broke  off  and  the 
hissing  was  resumed. 

"Mornin',  Mist'  Alfred." 

A  spare,  sandy  youth  paused  in  the  task  of  polishing 
a  set  of  harness. 


86  THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

"Good  morning,"  said  Smith.     "Busy?" 

"Things  get  that  mucky  in  no  time,"  said  the  youth. 
"  'Orses  mean  a  mort  o'  work,"  he  added,  as  he  re- 
turned to  the  polishing  of  the  metal-work. 

"What's  your  name?"  enquired  Smith. 

"Nudd,  Mist'  Alfred,"  he  replied.  "Dick  Nudd. 
Father  keeps  The  Pigeons." 

That  was  the  worst  of  village  communities,  was 
Smith's  mental  comment,  everybody  was  either  some- 
body's father  or  somebody  else's  son.  He  hesitated 
a  moment  before  putting  his  fateful  question.  In  all 
probability  Dick  Nudd  would  spread  the  story  of  his 
interrogation  throughout  the  village.  What  if  he  did? 
It  would  only  go  to  prove  that  Smith  was  entirely 
ignorant  of  anything  and  everything  concerned  with 
the  Thirkettle  Affair. 

"Can  you  tell  me  what  a  mawther  is,  Nudd?"  he 
asked,  striving  to  make  the  question  sound  casual. 

It  was  a  relief  that  Nudd  did  not  collapse.  Instead 
he  looked  up  from  his  polishing,  a  sheepish  grin  on 
his  freckled  face.  Obviously  the  question  was  not  so 
distressing  to  him  as  to  poor  Willis.  Possibly  it  was 
due  to  the  difference  between  youth  and  age. 

"A  mawther,  Mist'  Alfred,"  repeated  Dick  Nudd, 
his  grin  broadening.  "Fancy  you  a-askin'  a  question 
like  that.  I  don't  have  no  truck  with  'em,  myself,"  he 
added,  as  if  by  way  of  exculpation. 

There  was  nothing  disrespectful  in  his  tone.  The 
enquiry  appeared  to  him  obviously  in  the  light  of  a 
joke;  yet  it  was  equally  obvious  that,  in  his  opinion, 
Alfred  Warren  had  no  need  to  put  such  a  question. 

"Well?"  enquired  Smith  quietly;  but  in  a  tone  that 
made  it  clear  he  required  an  answer.  "What  does  it 
mean?" 


THE  STRANGENESS  OF  MARJORIE  87 

"A  mawther,  Mist'  Alfred,"  he  repeated,  scratch- 
ing his  head  through  a  black-and-white  check  cap  of 
sporting  design  and  cut,  "a  mawther's  a  gal,  Mist' 
Alfred,  a  woman." 

In  a  flash  the  truth  dawned  upon  Smith.  Bob  Thir- 
kettle's  mawther  was  his  daughter,  perhaps  his  wife, 
and — his  jaw  set  squarely. 

A  man  doesn't  go  looking  for  another  with  a  gun 
because  of  something  done  to  his  women-folk,  unless 
that  something  be  serious.  Everything  was  now  clear 
to  him.  Tom  Simmons'  salacious  slobberings,  Nudd 
pere's  contemptuous  remark,  Willis'  distress,  and 
young  Nudd's  clearly-expressed  surprise  that  Alfred 
Warren  should  require  enlightenment  as  to  the  mean- 
ing of  the  word  "mawther." 

"I'm  afraid  I've  been  under-estimating  the  dramatic 
possibilities  of  the  situation,"  he  murmured,  as,  with 
a  nod  to  Nudd,  he  turned  and  walked  slowly  towards 
the  house. 

II 

"I  wish  I  could  convince  you  that  I  am  not  Alfred 
Warren,"  remarked  Smith  half-an-hour  later,  as  he 
unfolded  a  napkin  and  spread  it  across  his  knees. 

Marjorie  gazed  at  him  with  grave  politeness,  an 
almost  imperceptible  frown  puckering  her  eyebrows. 

"You  see,"  he  continued,  "it's  just  a  dream.  I  am 
no  more  Alfred  Warren  than  I'm  the  Missing  Link. 
It's  all  very  awkward  though,"  he  added. 

He  had  already  decided  that,  in  a  blouse  and  skirt 
she  looked  as  attractive  as  she  had  the  night  before 
in  green. 

"Willis  tells  me  you  have  lost  your  memory." 


88  THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

Willis  beamed  on  him  as,  with  soft  tread,  he  moved 
about  the  room. 

"Willis  is  a  part  of  the  dream,"  said  Smith.  "In 
fact,  he  is  not  a  little  responsible  for  all  the  trouble." 

He  watched  Willis  pour  hock  into  Marjorie's  glass, 
his  interest  centred  in  the  decanter  he  carried  in  his 
left  hand.  As  he  approached,  Smith  made  a  motion 
of  refusal  of  the  decanter. 

Willis  seemed  surprised,  and  looked  irresolute. 

"Perhaps  you  would  prefer  champagne,  Mr.  Alfred. 
There's  some  of  the  1900  that  was  kept  back,"  he 
murmured.  "This,"  making  a  movement  with  his  left 
hand,  "is  the  sixty-five  brandy." 

"I  never  drink  it."  Smith  glanced  up  at  him  with  a 
smile. 

Marjorie  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  her  ex- 
pression for  the  first  time  manifesting  interest. 

Recovering  himself,  Willis  replaced  the  decanter 
upon  the  sideboard.  Smith  realised  that  he  was  mak- 
ing things  difficult  for  the  real  Alfred,  should  he  ever 
return. 

For  some  minutes  the  meal  proceeded  in  silence, 
Marjorie's  brow  slightly  puckered,  as  if  there  were 
something  about  it  all  that  puzzled  her. 

"The  weak  point  in  my  position,"  said  Smith  pres- 
ently, "is  that  I  cannot  prove  who  I  am,  although  I 
can  say  definitely  that  I  am  not  Alfred  Warren.  In 
the  village  this  morning,"  he  continued,  smiling  in  spite 
of  himself  at  the  look  of  anxiety  on  Willis'  face,  "every- 
body seemed  to  know  me,  and  I  knew  nobody.  It 
will  lead  to  all  sorts  of  complications,"  he  added. 

Again  there  was  silence.  Several  times  during  the 
meal,  Smith  was  conscious  that  he  was  being  gravely 


THE  STRANGENESS  OF  MARJORIE  89 

scrutinised  by  Marjorie.  Immediately  she  caught  his 
eye,  however,  her  own  were  lowered,  to  remain  fixed 
upon  her  plate.  She  was  certainly  a  difficult  girl  to 
talk  to. 

During  these  periods  of  silence,  he  had  ample  oppor- 
tunity of  looking  at  her  and  confirming  his  first  impres- 
sion. Her  well-modelled  head  was  crowned  with  a 
dense  mass  of  auburn  hair  that  seemed  to  hold  some- 
where in  its  depths  the  sunlight  of  June.  He  noted  the 
little  tendrils  framing  her  face.  They  seemed  to  laugh 
at  their  own  cleverness  in  escaping  restraint.  Her  eyes 
were  a  deep  violet,  and  there  were  little  cuts  at  the 
corners  of  her  mouth  suggestive  of  the  fact  that  humour 
lurked  there.  Yes,  she  was  beautiful. 

Her  attitude  was  correct,  whilst  entirely  lacking  in 
cordiality.  There  was  in  her  manner  almost  stiff- 
ness. Her  eyes  were  capable  of  sparkling  with  mis- 
chief, he  told  himself,  her  short  upper  lip,  the  im- 
pudent cuts  at  the  side  of  her  mouth,  and  the  nose  that 
was  just  the  tiniest  bit  retrousse,  all  conspired  to  render 
her  piquant  and  provocative;  yet  her  demeanour  was 
that  of  a  vicar's  wife  towards  the  village  reprobate. 
She  could  have  been  little  more  than  a  child,  he  argued, 
when  Alfred  had  disappeared.  She  was  certainly  not 
more  than  twenty-one  now. 

He  waited  until  Willis  had  finally  withdrawn.  He 
was  determined  to  try  and  solve  the  mystery  of  Mar- 
jorie's  dislike. 

"I  wish  you  would  try  and  dislike  me  for  myself 
alone,"  he  said  suddenly. 

She  looked  up  quickly.  For  the  fraction  of  a  second 
the  little  cuts  at  the  corners  of  her  mouth  quivered; 
but  it  was  only  a  momentary  lapse.  She  gazed  at  him, 


90  THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

her  head  a  fraction  on  one  side,  her  eyebrows  slightly 
lifted. 

"At  the  present  moment,"  he  continued,  "you  are 
disliking  me  because  you  think  I  am  Alfred  Warren. 
You  might  at  least  give  me  the  chance  of  earning  your 
dislike  by  sheer  merit." 

Then  she  laughed,  a  short,  gurgling  sound,  which 
died  away  almost  immediately.  Smith  thought  he  had 
never  seen  a  girl's  face  so  transformed.  Where  she 
had  been  beautiful,  she  now  became  fascinating,  ir- 
resistible. 

"Some  one  has  given  Alfred  Warren  a  bad  name, 
and  you  are  going  to  hang  me  for  it,"  he  continued  as 
she  made  no  comment. 

"Is  there  not  something  between  friendship  and — 
and  the  other  thing?"  she  queried. 

It  was  obvious  that,  whatever  Alfred  had  done,  he 
had  sinned  beyond  forgiveness.  It  must  be  something 
very  grave  indeed,  to  place  him  beyond  the  pale  of  her 
forgiveness. 

He  had  already  gathered  sufficient  to  convince  him 
that  Alfred's  private  life  had  been  full  of  hectic  episode 
and  florid  incident.  This,  in  all  probability,  was  re- 
sponsible for  Marjorie's  uncompromising  attitude  of 
disapproval.  He  knew  enough  of  women  to  appreciate 
that  it  would  be  hopeless  to  endeavour  to  modify  the 
bad  impression.  She  was  too  young  and  unsophisticated 
for  philosophy,  or  the  development  of  social  charity. 

Inwardly  he  cursed  Alfred  Warren  and  all  his  ways. 
To  inherit  a  man's  relatives  and  friends  was  sufficiently 
embarrassing;  but  to  be  saddled  with  his  past  was 
intolerable. 

"Of  course,  I  cannot  stay  on  here,"  he  said  pres- 
ently. 


THE  STRANGENESS  OF  MARJORIE  91 

"Why?"  She  looked  up  quickly,  a  startled  expres- 
sion in  her  eyes,  as  if  he  had  said  something  quite 
unexpected. 

"I  am  in  an  utterly  false  position." 

"But — "  She  stopped  short,  her  fingers  playing 
nervously  with  a  piece  of  Chinese  jade  suspended  from 
her  neck  by  a  black  silk  ribbon.  She  seemed  embar- 
rassed, as  if  she  wished  to  say  something  she  found 
it  difficult  to  express. 

"It's  horribly  awkward,"  he  said  with  a  smile  that 
did  not  reflect  the  mood  of  his  mind. 

She  gazed  at  him  gravely.  In  her  eyes  there  was 
a  question,  of  that  he  was  convinced. 

"I  shall  be  leaving  this  afternoon,"  he  said. 

"This  afternoon!"  There  was  alarm,  consternation 
in  her  voice.  Smith  was  thrilled.  Could  it  be  that 
she  really  wished  him  to  stay? 

"Yes;  if  I  can  evade  Willis  and  dodge  Mrs.  Higgs." 

«I__I__»     She  paused.     "Lady  Warren  would- 

In  a  flash  he  saw  her  perplexity.  There  was  Lady 
Warren  to  be  reckoned  with.  If  he  were  allowed  to 
go,  what  would  she  say?  How  would  it  affect  her? 

"You  are  great  friends?" 

"Yes."     Her  eyes  still  gazed  across  into  his. 

"And  you  are  wondering  whether  or  no  you  ought 
to  instruct  Willis  to  lock  me  up  in  the  wine-cellar  until 
she  returns." 

Immediately  he  had  uttered  the  words,  he  regretted 
them.  The  reference  to  the  wine-cellar  had  been  as 
unfortunate  as  it  had  been  unintentional.  He  could 
have  kicked  himself  as  he  saw  her  stiffen. 

"I  am  afraid  some  one  will  write  to  her,"  she  said 
coldly.  "The  shock  might  kill  her." 

"Miss  Lipscombe  has  asked  me  to  stay  at  the  vicar- 


92  THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

age,"  he  said,  feeling  it  unfair  to  keep  Marjorie  on 
the  rack  of  doubt. 

The  look  of  relief  in  her  eyes  gave  him  no  pleasur- 
able thrill.  On  the  contrary,  he  then  and  there  made 
up  his  mind  to  leave  the  vicarage  next  day.  The  situa- 
tion was  an  impossible  one,  he  decided. 

Marjorie  rose  and,  a  few  seconds  later,  Smith  closed 
the  door  behind  her.  Crossing  over  to  the  window, 
he  stood  looking  out  into  the  blue  and  gold  of  the 
summer  day. 

"Anyway,  thank  heaven  her  nose  doesn't  crinkle 
when  she  laughs,"  he  murmured. 

"Sir?"  queried  Willis,  who  had  entered  unheard. 

"Nothing,  Willis,"  said  Smith,  turning  from  the 
window.  "I  was  merely  removing  my  fly  from  some- 
body else's  ointment." 

And  the  butler  registered  a  mental  note  that  it  was 
"just  like  Mr.  Alfred." 

ill 

"Phew!" 

Smith  drew  a  long  breath  of  the  tired  air,  heavily 
scented  with  moth-ball.  At  his  own  suggestion  he 
had  penetrated  to  Mrs.  Higgs's  holy  of  holies,  her 
private  sitting-room,  and  already  he  was  regretting  it. 
The  solitary  window  was  tightly  shut  and  sealed  along 
the  ledge,  where  the  upper  and  lower  sashes  met,  by 
a  faded  red  sand-bag,  looking  like  an  unhealthy 
sausage. 

"You  sit  down,  sir,  and  I'll  send  Mrs.  Higgs,"  Willis 
had  said,  as  he  closed  the  door  of  the  housekeeper's 
little  sitting-room. 

Sit  down !  To  do  so  seemed  a  desecration.  As  well 
think  of  sitting  down  upon  the  high  altar  of  St.  Peter's 


THE  STRANGENESS  OF  MARJORIE  93 

at  Rome.  Never  could  he  remember  to  have  seen  a 
small  room  that  contained  so  many  objects.  The 
owner's  main  idea,  apparently,  had  been  to  cover  up 
every  inch  of  exposed  surface  of  floor,  mantelpiece  or 
wall.  It  was  bewildering.  Antimacassars,  little  wool- 
work mats  and  china  plaques;  plush  photograph- 
frames,  letter-weights  and  boxes  encrusted  with  sea- 
shells;  mugs  and  large  shells,  cups-and-saucers  from 
every  watering-place  in  Great  Britain. 

On  a  small  table  was  a  stuffed  canary  at  which  the 
moth  had  got  in  spite  of  its  glass  case,  a  small  spaniel, 
also  stuffed,  looked  up  from  the  hearth-rug  with  hard 
and  glassy  eyes.  The  whole  was  composed  of  a  mul- 
titude of  mats  and  what  their  owner  affectionately 
called  "knick-knacks."  This  was  obviously  Mrs. 
Higgs's  treasure-house.  Remove  or  break  one  single 
item,  and  she  would  know  it  instantly,  and  mourn 
over  it  as  over  the  hundredth  sheep. 

The  room  was  something  of  an  autobiography, 
Smith  decided,  its  treasures  having  been  hoarded  from 
year  to  year.  He  examined  the  photographs  that 
adorned  the  walls,  or  stood  on  mantelpiece  or  table, 
moving  about  gingerly  lest  he  should  upset  something. 
The  object  of  his  visit  was  the  hope  that  he  4might 
find  a  portrait  of  the  absentee  Alfred;  but  he  could 
find  nothing  even  remotely  resembling  himself. 

He  was  in  the  act  of  mentally 'registering  a  vow 
never  to  go  to  Cromer,  inspired  by  the  sight  of  a 
large  pink,  white  and  gold  mug,  which  proclaimed  to 
the  world  in  garish  lettering  'that  it  was  a  present 
from  that  place,  when  the,door  opened  to  the  accom- 
paniment of  a  persistent  rustle  and  the  sound  of  heavy 
breathing.  He  turned,  to  find  Mrs.  Higgs,  purple 
with  excitement,  and  respirating  like  a  -small  gas- 


94  THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

engine,  standing  beaming  at  him.  Willis  was  just  be- 
hind her,  closing  the  door. 

"This  is  kind  of  you,  Mr.  Alfred,"  she  said,  "and 
to  think  that  I  should  not  be  here  when  you  came. 
I've  run  every  step  of  the  way  from  the  second  floor," 
she  panted.  "It  was  so  good  of  Mr.  Willis  to  fetch 
me.  Do  sit  down,  sir,  please." 

Smith  looked  about  him  in  despair.  Eventually  he 
selected  a  chair  which  seemed  less  ornamental  than 
its  fellows,  although  Mrs.  Higgs's  eyes  had  been  fixed 
on  a  papier-mache  construction  inlaid  with  mother-of- 
pearl  and  adorned  with  a  royal-blue  cushion,  a  white 
antimacassar  being  tied  with  orange  ribbon  to  its  back. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Willis!  Please  sit  you  down,"  she  flus- 
tered. 

At  the  sight  of  the  old  woman's  obvious  happiness, 
Smith  was  conscious  of  a  slight  contraction  at  the  back 
of  his  throat. 

"Now  don't  you  think  we  might  have  a  cup  of  tea, 
Mrs.  Higgs?"  suggested  Smith. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Alfred!"  she  cried.  "How  good  of  you. 
I'll  go  and  see — " 

"No,  not  a  bit  of  it,"  said  Smith.  "Ring  the  bell. 
We'll  be  waited  on  like  gentlefolk." 

She  beamed  on  him  and  rang  the  bell. 

"Mr.  Alfred  would  like  to  take  tea  with  Mr.  Willis 
and  me  here,  Salter,"  she  said  to  the  parlour-maid, 
in  a  tone  that  was  almost  apologetic,  "and — and — 
Salter,"  she  added.  As  the  girl  was  about  to  leave 
the  room,  she  whispered  something  he  did  not  catch. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Alfred!  this  is  good  of  you,"  she  cried. 
"Isn't  it,  Mr.  Willis?"  She  turned  to  Willis  for  cor- 
roboration. 


THE  STRANGENESS  OF  MARJORIE  95 

"It  is  indeed,  Mrs.  Higgs,"  said  Willis,  his  face 
reflecting  the  happiness  stamped  on  that  of  the  house- 
keeper; but  in  a  lower  key. 

"We're  all  so  happy  to-day,"  said  Mrs.  Higgs. 
"Why,  all  the  morning  I've  hardly  known  whether 
I  stood  on  my  head  or  my  heels." 

The  thought  of  the  portly  Mrs.  Higgs  standing  on 
anything  but  her  feet  amused  Smith. 

"Poor  Mrs.  Death  has  been  crying  all  the  morning." 

"Mrs.  Death  is  the  cook,"  explained  Willis,  seeing 
the  look  of  surprise  on  Smith's  face.  "She  has  visions." 

"But  why  should  she  cry?". asked1  Smith. 

"You  see,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Higgs,  "it  reminded  her 
of  when  she  lost  Mr.  Death." 

Smith  was  puzzled  why  the  return  of  an  alleged 
prodigal  should  remind  a  woman  of  the  loss  of,  in 
all  probability,  a  good  husband;  but  he  refrained  from 
comment.  Probably  the  visions  explained  it. 

For  fully  a  minute  there  was  an  awkward  and  con- 
strained silence;  Mrs.  Higgs  radiated  happiness,  Willis 
looked  uncomfortable.  Smith  longed  for  the  courage 
to  break  a  pane  of  glass.  He  was  sure  the  window 
would  not  open. 

"I  suppose  you're  convinced  that  I  am  Mr.  Alfred, 
Mrs.  Higgs,"  he  said  at  length. 

"Oh,  sir !"  she  cried,  and  began  to  chuckle  in  a 
way  that  set  her  triple  chins  throbbing  with  sympa- 
thetic enjoyment,  whilst  her  cameo  locket  danced  up 
and  down  upon  her  generous  person. 

"And,"  continued  Smith,  "Willis  is  prepared  to 
swear  it  upon  a  whole  mountain  of  Bibles,  aren't  you, 
Willis?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Willis  gravely. 


96  THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

"Now,"  continued  Smith.  "Don't  interrupt  me  until 
I've  finished.  I  am  no  more  Mr.  Alfred  than  I  am 
the  Shah  of  Persia  or  Jack  Johnson.  My  name  is 
Smith,  James  Smith,  and  you  have  got  me  into  rather 
a  hole  by  persisting  in  saying  that  I  am  Mr.  Alfred 
Warren." 

Mrs.  Higgs  exchanged  glances  with  Willis.  In  that 
look  Smith  recognised  the  utter  futility  of  endeavouring 
to  convince  either  of  them  that  he  was  not  Alfred 
Warren. 

"You've  been  ill,  you  poor  lamb,"  said  Mrs.  Higgs. 

"It's  your  memory,  sir,"  echoed  Willis.  "You — " 
He  stopped  suddenly  as  Salter  entered  with  the  tea- 
tray. 

At  the  sight  of  it  Smith  groaned  aloud.  There  in 
the  centre,  dominating  the  tea-things,  stood  the  inevita- 
ble syphon  of  soda-water  and  decanter  of  whisky. 
The  girl  looked  about  her  enquiringly.  Mrs.  Higgs 
bustled  over  to  the  round-table  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  the  corner  of  which  she  managed  to  clear  of 
its  albums  and  photo-frames.  There  the  girl  placed 
the  tray. 

Smith  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  decanter. 

"Surely,  Mrs.  Higgs,  you  don't  prefer  whisky-and- 
soda  to  tea." 

"Oh,  no,  sir!"  she. stammered. 

"Then  it  must  be  you,  Willis." 

"Me,  sir!"  cried  Willis,  starting  up.  "Oh,  no,  sir! 
I  like  a  cup  of  tea  above — " 

"Then  it  must  be  your  mistake,  Salter,"  said  Smith 
with  a  smile. 

The  girl  looked  at  Mrs.  Higgs  and  then,  at  a  nod 
from  her,  picked  up  the  syphon  and  decanter  and  left 


THE  STRANGENESS  OF  MARJORIE  97 

the  room.  Mrs.  Higgs  disguised  her  embarrassment 
by  becoming  engrossed  in  the  pouring-out  of  the  tea, 
whilst  Willis  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  moth-eaten  stuffed 
canary  that  looked  so  pitifully  devoid  of  life. 

As  Smith  looked  at  Mrs.  Higgs  he  was  certain  that 
her  chins  vibrated  with  something  that  was  akin  to 
song.  She  looked  for  all  the  world  as  if  she  were 
purring. 

Willis  still  sat  as  if  uncertain  of  the  stability  of 
the  chair;  but  he  reflected  on  his  own  genial  features 
the  happiness  that  was  Mrs.  Higgs's. 

"It's  obviously  no  use  endeavouring  to  convince  you 
two  good  people  that  I  am  not  Mr.  Alfred,"  said 
Smith  as  he  took  the  cup  that  Mrs.  Higgs  handed  him 
and,  with  a  motion  of  his  head,  declined  the  bread 
and  butter  and  scones  that  Willis  proffered. 

'They  both  smiled  at  him  as  if  in  entire  agreement 
with  his  words. 

"So,"  continued  Smith,  "you  might  tell  me  some- 
thing about  my  alleged  self." 

"Your  alleged  self,  sir?"  repeated  Mrs.  Higgs. 

"Yes,  tell  me  something  about  Mr.  Alfred." 

Mrs.  Higgs  looked  across  at  Willis,  anxiety  and 
apprehension  in  her  eyes.  Willis  looked  uncomfort- 
able. 

"Yes,  sir,  certainly,"  said  Mrs.  Higgs,  and  to  gain 
time  proceeded  to  cool  her  tea  'by  blowing  upon  it, 
holding  the  cup  and  saucer  with  a  prim  awkwardness 
that  was  evidently  intended  for  refinement. 

Smith  waited,  smilingly  patient. 

Having  reduced  the  tea  to  a  satisfactory  tempera-* 
ture,  Mrs.  Higgs  sipped  it  three  or  four  times,  then 
replaced  the  cup-and-saucer  upon  the  tray. 


98  THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

"You — you  were  a  beautiful  baby,  Mr.  Alfred," 
she  began  hesitatingly. 

Willis  nodded  his  head  approvingly. 

"I  remember  saying  many  a  time  as  I  used  to — " 

"Tell  me  more  about  Mr.  Alfred  when  he  wasn't 
a  baby,"  Smith  suggested,  "just  before  he  went  away, 
for  instance."  Again  he  noted  the  look  of  apprehen- 
sion that  passed  between  the  two  old  servants. 

"There  isn't  much  to  tell,  sir,"  she  said,  "only — 
only — "  She  paused. 

"Only  what?"  asked  Smith. 

"Only  that  one  day  you  disappeared  and — and — " 
Again  she  hesitated.  He  noticed  that  tears  were  gath- 
ering in  her  eyes.  Presently  one  tipped  over  the  brim 
and  slid  down  the  side  of  her  nose.  She  proceeded 
to  ferret  about  among  her  lower  draperies  in  search 
of  a  handkerchief.  When  at  last  it  was  retrieved, 
there  were  two  wet  lines  running  down  .her  face,  one 
on  either  side  of  her  nose. 

"But  why  did  he  leave  home?" 

"Ah!  sir,"  she  sniffed  with  dolorous  significance. 
"You  may  well  ask?" 

"Well?"  queried  Smith. 

"It  was  terrible,  sir,  terrible !  Wasn't  it,  Mr.  Wil- 
lis? And  her  poor  Ladyship." 

Willis  inclined  his  head  with  melancholy  decision. 
"Terrible!"  he  repeated. 

"Yes;  but  you  are  not  helping  me  in  the  least," 
protested  Smith.  "There  must  have  been  some 
reason." 

"There  were  a  lot  of  wicked  people,  Mr.  Alfred," 
said  Mrs.  Higgs  huskily. 

"There  usually  are,"  he  smiled. 


THE  STRANGENESS  OF  MARJORIE  99 

"And  they  were  jealous  of  you,"  she  continued. 

"Yes;  but  I  wasn't  supposed  to  be  kidnapped, 
was  I?" 

"No,  sir,  you  went  away.  You  were  always  very 
sensitive  and — and — "  It  was  obvious  that  Mrs. 
Higgs  was  on  the  point  of  breaking  down.  He 
thought  it  kinder  to  give  a  turn  to  the  conversation. 

"Do  you  know  what  I  was  looking  for  when  you 
came  in?"  he  asked. 

"Looking  for?"  she  repeated.     "No,  sir." 

"I  was  looking  for  a  photograph  of  Mr.  Alfred, 
and  I  couldn't  find  one — " 

"Lawk  a  mercy  me !"  she  cried,  pulling  herself  into 
an  upright  position  by  means  of  the  table.  Trotting 
over  to  the  corner  of  the  room,  she  opened  a  drawer 
in  a  table,  and  took  out  an  album.  From  the  keys 
at  her  side  she  selected  one,  unlocked  the  clasp  and 
handed  it  to  Smith. 

"We  put  them  away  because  of*  her  Ladyship,"  she 
explained. 

With  something  nearly  approaching  excitement,  he 
opened  the  album  and  found  himself  gazing  at  a  baby 
seated  upon  a  high  stool  with  a  deplorable  insufficiency 
of  clothing.  From  the  right-hand  side  of  the  photo- 
graph a  hand  was  to  be  seen,  stretched  forth  to  save 
the  child  from  its  own  obstreperousness.  It  was  a 
faded  print  of  a  bygone  day,  and  Smith  had  to  confess 
to  himself  that  he  could  see  no  very  marked  likeness 
between  this  "indelicately  exposed  infant  and  himself. 

He  turned  to  the  other  end  of  the  album,  where 
suddenly  he  found  himself  gazing  at  what*  seemed  to 
be  his  own  photograph,  taken  some  six  or  seven  years 
previously.  When  he  had  recovered  from  the  first 


100        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

sensation  of  shock,  he  could  see  slight  differences.  The 
chin  was  rounded  and  sensual.  The  eyelids  drooped, 
and  the  face,  although  by  no  means  a  bad  one,  was 
obviously  that  of  a  man  lacking  in  will  power. 

Conscious  that  the  eyes  of  the  others  were  fixed 
upon  him,  he  passed  on  from  photograph  to  photo- 
graph. Alfred  appeared  to  have  been  photographed 
at  every  conceivable  age  and,  in  his  earlier  days,  in 
every  conceivable  absence  of  clothing.  It  was  posi- 
tively indelicate,  he  told  himself,  thus  to  parade  pa- 
rental indiscretions  to  a  full-grown  man. 

As  the  photographs  showed  the  passage  from  child- 
hood into  boyhood,  and  from  boyhood  to  young  man- 
hood, he  found  the  likeness  to  himself  more  pro- 
nounced, until  the  last  photographs  of  all  might  easily 
have  been  taken  for  portraits  of  himself.  No  wonder 
these  people  all  insisted  upon  identifying  him  as  the 
missing  Alfred.  In  face  and  figure  they  were  obviously 
very  similar,  almost  uncannily  alike  in  fact;  but — and 
this  is  what  struck  him  most — it  seemed  almost  in- 
credible that,  however  similar  facially  they  might  be, 
they  should  possess  personalities  that  might  be  mis- 
taken one  for  the  other. 

Alfred  was  obviously  of  a  weak  character,  easily 
influenced;  but  there  must  have  been  something  pecul- 
iarly attractive  in  his  personality  to  earn  for  him  such 
affection  as  was  shown  by  the  servants.  Was  it  due 
to  loyalty,  or  to  real  liking  for  the  missing  Alfred? 
From  what  he  had  heard  of  Alfred's  habits  and  asso- 
ciates, there  was  little  to  suggest  a  lovable  character; 
yet  on  the  other  hand  there  was  the  obvious  devotion 
of  Willis  and  Mrs.  Higgs,  to  say  nothing  of  the  some- 
what dubious  testimony  of  the  tearful  Mrs.  Death. 


THE  STRANGENESS  OF  MARJORIE  101 

As  he  continued  to  gaze  at  the  photographs,  he 
wondered  if  his  actions,  his  personality  and  his  bearing 
were  similar  to  those  of  the  missing  heir.  Yet  had 
not  Mrs.  Higgs  on  several  occasions  drawn  a  parallel 
between  them  by  turning  to  Willis  and  exclaiming, 
"Isn't  that  just  like  Mr.  Alfred?" 

Suddenly  he  looked  up  from  the  book. 

"I  want  you  each  to  tell  me  in  what  I  am  most  like 
Mr.  Alfred,"  he  said. 

For  fully  a  minute  there  was  silence. 

"It's  your  smile,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Higgs.  "I  should 
have  known  you  anywhere  by  that." 

"And  you,  Willis?"  queried  Smith. 

"I  think,  sir,  the  way  you  half-close  your  eyes  when 
you  seem  to  be  resting,  when  you  are  smoking,  that  is." 

Then  he  had  got  that  droop  of  the  eyelids  he  had 
noticed  in  Alfred's  photographs.  It  was  all  very  ex- 
traordinary. If  he  went  far  enough  he  would,  in  all 
probability,  find  some  one  to  identify  his  every  move- 
ment. Suddenly  he  had  an  inspiration. 

"Did  Mr.  Alfred  like  games,  cricket,  football,  and 
that  sort  of  thing?"  he  asked  Willis;  but  it  was  Mrs. 
Higgs  who  replied. 

"No,  sir,  you  were  always  very  gentle.  You  played 
cricket  against  Upper  Saxton,  sir,  and  you  sometimes 
played  tennis." 

"Was  I  any  good?"  enquired  Smith,  "at  cricket, 
I  mean?"  he  added. 

"You  were  generally  unlucky,  sir,"  said  the  loyal 
Willis,  "and,  and — "  but  even  his  resources  were  not 
equal  to  the  occasion. 

"I  suppose  there  was  some  marked  physical  pecu- 
liarity about  Mr.  Alfred,"  said  Smith,  hopeful  of  find- 


102        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

ing  a  stray  straw  at  which  to  clutch,  "a  blemish,  an 
— Achilles'  heel" — he  had  almost  said  "a  cloven  hoof." 

"Sir?"  queried  Mrs.  Higgs,  not  quite  following  the 
classical  trend  of  his  thoughts. 

"Had  he  a  scar,  for  instance,  or  a  mole?" 

"Ah!  Mr.  Alfred,"  she  cried,  her  puzzled  frown 
dissipating  into  smiles,  "you  were  such  a  beautiful 
baby." 

Upon  the  subject  of  infants,  he  decided,  Mrs.  Higgs 
was  almost  offensively  ecstatic. 

"Her  Ladyship  used  to  say  you  were  without  blem- 
ish, and  you  were,  sir.  Everybody  said  so." 

"And  didn't  I  ever  break  a  leg  or  an  arm?"  he  per- 
sisted. "Or  even  a  rib?" 

"Never,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Higgs,  with  an  air  of  finality 
that  seemed  to  prick  his  bubble  of  hope.  It  was  ob- 
vious, he  decided,  that  Alfred  Warren  had  concen- 
trated upon  the  Commandments. 

"Well,  thank  you  very  much  for  giving  me  tea," 
said  Smith,  and  he  looked  down  smilingly  at  Mrs. 
Higgs.  With  a  sudden  gulp  he  added,  "I  envy  you 
this  delightful  little  room."  Then,  with  the  brand 
of  Ananias  on  his  lips,  he  passed  out  of  the  house- 
keeper's room. 

"It'll  have  to  be  cricket,  then,"  he  muttered,  as  he 
walked  along  the  corridor.  "A  century  might  do  it." 


CHAPTER  VII 

LITTLE  BILSTEAD  SITS  IN  JUDGMENT 

"T  M  so  nervous,  Jane,"  fluttered  Miss  Mary  Jell. 
"Don't  be  absurd,  Mary,"  retorted  Miss  Jell. 
"You  ought  to  show  more  self-control." 

"But  suppose  he  were  to  call,"  whispered  Miss 
Mary,  her  eyes  round  as  those  of  a  frightened  child. 
"I  should  faint,  I  know  I  should,"  she  added  with 
conviction.  "I  was  so  frightened  this  morning." 

Miss  Jell  drew  in  her  lips;  but  made  no  remark. 
The  two  sisters  were  seated  in  their  drawing-room 
awaiting  the  callers  that  the  Third  Thursday  in  the 
month  always  brought  them.  Miss  Jell  had  assumed 
her  usual  position  opposite  the  door,  whilst  her  sister 
had  taken  a  chair  near  the  window.  Her  natural 
inclination  to  watch  the  callers  as  they  approached, 
having  been  rigorously  curbed  by  her  more  decorous 
sister,  Miss  Mary  had  compromised  by  sitting  as  near 
to  the  window  as  she  dare,  and  in  such  a  position 
as  enabled  her,  when  her  sister  was  not  looking,  to 
obtain  an  occasional  glimpse  of  the  roadway  that  rib- 
boned down  towards  the  village. 

The  Misses  Jell  were  both  small,  both  prey,  and 
both  of  unknown  age;  but  whereas  Miss  Tell  was  re- 
served and  austere,  as  befits  an  elder  sister,  Miss  Mary 
was  sometimes  spontaneous  and  always  gentle.  They 
were  gentlewomen  and  they  looked  it.  They  had  lived 
in  Little  Bilstead  all  their  lives,  and  were  invited  to 
The  Grange,  a  distinction  they  shared  with  the  vicar, 

103 


104        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

his  sister,  Colonel  Enderby,  the  doctor,  and  Mrs. 
Truspitt-Greene. 

Somewhere  in  the  dim  recesses  of  the  past,  a  maga- 
zine, long  since  defunct,  had  accepted  a  story  by  Miss 
Jell.  From  then  onwards  she  was,  by  common  con- 
sent, looked  upon  as  "literary,"  and  upon  all  such 
matters  she  was  regarded  as  an  authority,  and  defer- 
ence paid  to  her  opinion.  Never  having  reached  such 
heights,  Miss  Mary  had  perforce  to  accept  a  more 
lowly  position,  not  only  in  the  household,  but  in  the 
social  world  of  Little  Bilstead. 

The  Cedars,  where  the  Misses  Jell  had  lived  all  their 
lives,  was  a  small  house  with  a  garden  back  and  front, 
an  estate  agent  would  have  described  it  as  "standing 
in  its  own  grounds."  As  a  matter  of  fact,  there  was 
at  least  a  yard  and  a  half  of  ground  either  side  between 
the  hedge  and  the  house;  but  nowhere  was  there  to 
be  seen  anything  dimly  resembling  a  cedar.  Not  even 
the  oldest  inhabitant  could  remember  such  a  tree  rear- 
ing its  browns  and  blacks  anywhere  near  the  house. 
How  the  place  had  come  to  be  called  "The  Cedars," 
no  one  knew,  and  no  one  seemed  to  care. 

The  social  event  of  the  month  in  Little  Bilstead 
was  the  Miss  Jells'  Third  Thursdays.  About  half- 
past  three  in  the  afternoon,  Little  Bilstead,  that  is 
to  say  such  portion  of  Little  Bilstead  as  had  been 
socially  "born,"  would  be  seen  making  its  way  towards 
The  Cedars,  which  stood  on  the  rise  of  the  hill  at  the 
eastern-most  end  of  the  village. 

Colonel  Enderby  would  bring  out  his  tall  white  felt 
hat  with  the  black  band,  winter  or  summer  it  made 
no  difference,  stab  into  his  tie  a  horse-shoe  pin  com- 
posed of  brilliants,  which  had  been  presented  to  him 


LITTLE  BILSTEAD  SITS  IN  JUDGMENT         103 

by  an  Indian  rajah,  button  on  his  white  spats  and, 
with  gloves  and  cane  clasped  jauntily  in  his  left  hand, 
would  set  forth  to  pay  his  respects,  as  he  expressed 
it,  to  the  Misses  Jell. 

Mrs.  Spelman  would  don  a  new  headgear  of  her 
own  construction,  and  her  passing  the  window  of  Rose 
Cottage  would  be  a  signal  for  Miss  Marshall,  who  for 
the  last  half-hour  had  stood  watching  behind  the  cur- 
tain, to  make  the  plunge.  With  her  would  be  her 
father,  a  retired  civil  servant,  who  possessed  the  soul 
of  an  albino  and  the  appetite  of  a  cormorant.  During 
the  afternoon,  generally  when  the  last  callers  were 
preparing  to  leave,  the  vicar  would  sometimes  look  in. 

Social  Little  Bilstead  lived  for  the  Miss  Jells'  Third 
Thursdays,  there  to  discuss  and  re-discuss  all  that 
had  happened,  and  a  great  deal  that  had  not  hap- 
pened, in  the  village  during  the  previous  month. 
Others  extended  hospitality;  but  it  was  sporadic.  The 
Marshalls  sometimes  indulged  in  a  whist-drive,  Mrs. 
Spelman  was  generally  at  home  by  special  invitation 
twice  in  three  months,  thus  exercising  an  economy  of 
thirty-three-and-a-third  per  cent,  per  annum,  without 
it  being  particularly  noticeable. 

Colonel  Enderby  gave  little  bachelor  teas,  whilst 
the  others  did  their  social  best  for  Little  Bilstead;  still 
the  Misses  Jell  could  claim  pride  of  place. 

"Here's  Mrs.  Spelman,"  cried  Miss  Mary,  forget- 
ting in  her  excitement  that  she  had  obtained  the  in- 
formation by  illicit  means. 

"How  many  times  have  I  told  you,  Mary,  not  to — " 

"She's  had  the  red  tip  dyed  magenta,"  broke  in 
Miss  Mary,  unable  to  restrain  herself  within  the  limits 
of  discretion. 


106        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

"If  you  insist  on  looking  out  of  the  window,  Mary, 
I  shall  have  the  blinds  drawn,"  announced  Miss  Jell, 
who,  with  hands  folded  austerely  before  her,  sat  await- 
ing the  first  peal  at  the  bell. 

Miss  Mary  subsided  with  a  little  sigh  of  regret.  To 
her  the  Third  Thursdays  would  have  been  so  much 
more  enjoyable  had  she  been  allowed  to  sit  at  the 
window  and  watch  the  arrival  of  the  first  callers.  The 
little  sigh  with  which  she  received  her  sister's  remark 
indicated  that  this  little  pleasure  had  been  consigned 
to  the  limbo  of  things  that  are  not  to  be. 

Two  minutes  later  the  little  bell  tinkled  to  announce 
the  arrival  of  Mrs.  Spelman.  This  was  followed  al- 
most immediately  by  the  irruption  into  the  placid  at- 
mosphere of  the  drawing-room  of  a  little  woman  in  a 
fawn  dust-coat.  On  her  head  was  what  had  come  to 
be  known  in  Little  Bilstead  as  "Mrs.  Spelman's  toque." 

Mrs.  Spelman  possessed  certain  millinery  materials, 
a  wire  "shape,"  covered  with  dingy  gauze,  which  in 
form  was  not  unlike  a  Martello  Tower,  two  "tips," 
little  tufts  of  feathers  raped  from  some  inconspicuous 
portion  of  an  ostrich,  several  pieces  of  gold-coloured 
bullion-lace,  and  an  infinity  of  odds  and  ends  of  black 
satin  and  coloured  velvets.  One  of  the  "tips"  was 
black  and  the  other  coloured.  Each  was  from  time 
to  time  "re-dipped,"  the  coloured  tip,  like  the  foliage 
of  a  cedar,  gradually  darkening  in  shade  with  the 
passage  of  years. 

Each  month  Mrs.  Spelman  produced  something  new 
in  the  way  of  millinery.  Never  had  she  been  known 
to  repeat  herself.  The  final  result  was  always  too 
large,  giving  to  it  an  apnearance  of  top-heaviness  which 
seemed  to  threaten  with  entire  extinction  her  small 
features* 


LITTLE  BILSTEAD  SITS  IN  JUDGMENT         107 

"Oh,  Miss  Jell!  What  do  you  think  of  it?"  she 
cried.  "He  was  in  the  village  only  this  morning.  I 
meant  to  go  down  to  the  post-office  to  get  a  money- 
order  for  my  old  nurse.  Just  as  I  was  leaving  the 
house,  Prinnikins  knocked  over  a  jug  of  cream.  Milly 
was  so  annoyed.  I  had  to  stay  and  comfort  her  and 
remove  the  cream  from  Prinny's  tail.  Wasn't  it  vex- 
ing? But  for  that  I  should — " 

"To  whom  are  you  referring,  Mrs.  Spelman?"  en- 
quired Miss  Jell,  with  that  touch  of  coldness  in  her 
voice  she  invariably  kept  for  Mrs.  Spelman.  As  the 
widow  of  a  tradesman,  she  had  to  be  kept  in  her  place. 

"Oh!  haven't  you  heard?"  she  continued.  "Alfred 
Warren  has  returned.  The  village  is  in  a  state  of 
ferment.  I'm  sure  something  terrible  will  happen. 
To  think  that  but  for  dear  little  Prinny's  playfulness 
I  should  have  seen  him  this  morning.  You  remember 
all  about  the  Thirkettle — " 

"I  don't  think  we  need  discuss  that,"  said  Miss 
Jell,  with  a  glance  at  her  sister  as  if  she  had  been  in 
her  teens. 

"But  don't  you  realise,"  continued  Mrs.  Spelman, 
"that  we  shall  be  flung  into  a  veritable — oh!  here's 
Colonel  Enderbv,"  she  cried,  as  the  door  was  opened 
by  Ellen,  the  Miss  Jells'  elderly  maid,  to  admit  a  tall, 
spare  man,  with  a  white,  bristling  moustache,  the  eyes 
of  a  crawfish  and  the  jowl  of  a  bloodhound. 

"Oh!     Colonel  Enderby,  have  vou  heard — ?" 

Mrs.  Spelman  stopped  suddenly.  Colonel  Enderby 
had  fixed  into  his  right  eye  the  monocle  that  always 
dangled  from  his  neck  by  a  piece  of  broad  black  ribbon, 
and  froze  her  as  if  she  had  been  an  untidily-clothed 
recruit.  He  then  turned  to  Miss  Tell  and  Miss  Mary, 
and  proceeded  to  greet  them  with  a  ceremony  sug- 


108        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

gestive  of  the  days  of  Thackeray;  finally  he  turned  to 
Mrs.  Spelman  and  "greeted"  her. 

"You  know,  Colonel,  I  nearly  saw  him  this  morn- 
ing!" cried  Mrs.  Spelman.  "If  it  hadn't  been  for 
Prinnikins  upsetting  a  jug  of  cream  and  then  sitt — I 
mean  putting  his  tail  in  it,  I  should  have  met  him  in  the 
village." 

"Met  whom  in  the  village?"  demanded  Colonel 
Enderby.  He  disliked  widows,  especially  those  of 
what  he  called  "damned  daily-breaders." 

"Mr.  Warren!     You  know  he's  back,  don't  you?" 

"I  heard  it  this  morning,"  he  cried,  his  moustache 
bristling  even  more  fiercely.  "If  I  meet  him  it  will 
be  my  pleasant  duty  to  tell  him  that  he's  a  scoundrel. 
I've  half  a  mind  to — "  Colonel  Enderby  paused,  and 
gazed  about  him  with  bellicose  intensity. 

Miss  Mary  looked  up  at  him  admiringly,  whilst  Mrs. 
Spelman  smirked. 

"You  soldiers  are  always  so  terrible,"  she  said, 
whereat  Colonel  Enderby  straightened  himself.  He 
had  been  known  in  the  army  as  Ramrod  Enderby. 

"I — "  he  began,  when  he  was  interrupted  by  the 
re-appearance  of  the  flat-footed  Ellen. 

"Mr.  and  Miss  Marshall,"  she  announced,  in  a 
voice  that  seemed  several  times  too  small  for  her. 

It  was  Ellen's  rule  never  to  announce  the  first  two 
arrivals.  Her  publicity  began  with  the  advent  of  the 
third.  Miss  Jell  had  striven  long  and  arduously  to 
break  her  of  this  habit;  but  to  all  her  protests  Ellen 
would  reply,  "Yes,  miss,"  and  on  the  very  next  occa- 
sion proceed  to  do  exactly  as  she  had  done  for  the  last 
thirty  years. 

Whilst  the  Marshalls  were  being  made  welcome, 


LITTLE  BILSTEAD  SITS  IN  JUDGMENT         109 

Colonel  Enderby  proceeded  to  blow  out  his  cheeks  and 
glare  about  him,  as  if  accumulating  energy  for  an  out- 
burst against  the  prodigal.  His  ideas  of  conversation 
were  those  of  a  monologue,  with  himself  cast  for  the 
speaking  part. 

Whilst  his  daughter  was  engaged  with  the  Misses 
Jell,  Mr.  Marshall  was  taking  stock  of  the  sideboard, 
upon  which  the  refreshments  were  laid  out.  He  was  a 
gaunt  man,  with  the  expression  of  a  rabbit,  and  the 
voracity  of  an  ostrich.  A  grateful  country  had  be- 
stowed upon  him  a  pension,  totally  inadequate  to  his 
needs,  even  had  his  appetite  been  normal.  As  it  was, 
his  daughter,  Amelia,  a  near-sighted,  sandy-haired 
young  woman,  whose  bust  and  lower  waist  measure- 
ments seemed  somehow  to  have  become  confused,  found 
it  difficult,  even  with  the  aid  of  tinned  foods,  to  keep 
expenditure  upon  bowing  terms  with  income. 

But  for  the  social  instincts  of  Little  Bilstead,  she 
would  long  since  have  been  forced  to  give  up  the 
struggle;  but  Mr.  Marshall  was  a  good  forager,  and 
could  generally  be  depended  upon  to  scratch  a  fairly 
decent  meal  at  any  function  to  which  he  was  invited. 
Upon  such  days  Miss  Marshall  was  able  to  eke  out 
existence  with  a  bread-and-cheese  luncheon  and  a  small 
tin  of  salmon  for  dinner. 

"I  regard  it  as  a  scandal!"  announced  Colonel  En- 
derby, as  if  he  were  addressing  a  squad  of  defaulters. 
"Eh!  Marshall?" 

"Er — er — certainly,"  stammered  Mr.  Marshall,  re- 
called from  an  earnest  contemplation  of  a  plate  of 
deep-tinted  fruit-cake.  He  had  already  decided  that 
it  should  form  the  foundation  of  his  afternoon  meal. 

"Such   a   dreadful  example   for   the  villagers,"   re- 


110        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

marked  Mrs.  Spelman,  casting  up  her  eyes  to  the  ceil- 
ing, as  if  her  thoughts  were  with  "the  rude  fore- 
fathers." 

"It  is  certainly  very  unfortunate,"  remarked  Miss 
Jell  primly. 

"Unfortunate,  marm!"  cried  Colonel  Enderby. 
"It's  an  outrage.  When  I  was  a  young  man,  such  a 
thing  would  have  been  impossible." 

Colonel  Enderby  was  never  tired  of  cataloguing  the 
things  that  would  have  been  impossible  when  he  was 
young. 

"That  terrible  Thirkettle  affair—"  Mrs.  Spelman 
paused,  at  the  sight  of  the  frown  upon  Miss  Jell's 
brows.  Miss  Mary  Jell  turned  aside  and  coughed 
modestly,  whilst  Miss  Marshall  blushed. 

They  were  interrupted  by  further  callers  and,  for 
the  next  quarter  of  an  hour,  Miss  Jell  and  her  sister 
were  kept  busy  receiving  guests  and  ministering  to  their 
needs. 

As  caller  after  caller  arrived,  they,  in  effect,  re- 
peated Mrs.  Spelman's  "Oh,  Miss  Jell !  What  do  you 
think  of  it?"  and  then  each  proceeded  to  tell  what 
he,  or  she,  had  heard.  Although  the  prodigal  had 
been  back  less  than  twenty-four  hours,  every  one 
seemed  to  be  possessed  of  a  vast  amount  of  informa- 
tion concerning  him. 

Mr.  Williams,  a  small  man  with  a  small  voice  and  a 
still  smaller  income,  had  heard  that  he  had  spent  the 
whole  of  the  previous  day  at  The  Pigeons,  and  had 
been  seen  to  leave  in  a  state  of  marked  hilarity  and 
with  unsteady  gait. 

Mrs.  Gaynford,  who  had  private  means  and  public 
meannesses,  had  been  told  by  her  maid  that  there  had 


LITTLE  BILSTEAD  SITS  IN  JUDGMENT         111 

been  a  terrible  scene  at  The  Grange,  in  which  the 
butler  had  been  severely  handled  by  his  master,  be- 
cause he  refused  to  give  up  the  key  of  the  wine-cellar. 
The  atmosphere  was  hot  with  rumour,  and  the  tem- 
perature was  further  heightened  by  the  increasing  ex- 
citement. 

The  attendance  that  afternoon  created  a  record  for 
the  Miss  Jells'  Third  Thursdays.  Even  Dr.  Crane 
found  time  to  "slip"  in  and  out  again,  saying  a  few 
words,  nodding  his  head  and  diplomatically  avoiding 
any  definite  expression  of  opinion.  Dr.  Crane's  con- 
ception of  the  attitude  of  the  general  practitioner  was 
that  silence  added  weight  to  the  few  words  he  spoke. 
In  this  he  was  abetted  by  the  almost  bovine  placidity 
of  his  wife. 

The  excitement  seriously  interfered  with  Mr.  Mar- 
shall's customary  meal,  and  that  night  Miss  Marshall 
had  to  reinforce  the  small  tin  of  salmon  with  a  "can" 
of  baked  beans.  She  spent  a  restless  night  wondering 
in  what  direction  she  could  exercise  economy  to  cover 
the  additional  expenditure. 

The  entrance  of  young  Eric  Stannard,  Marjorie  Stan- 
nard's  red-headed  and  freckled  brother,  caused  a  sud- 
den hush  to  fall  upon  the  company,  a  tribute  alike 
to  the  immaturity  of  his  fourteen  years  and  their  own 
curiosity  as  to  whether  his  sister  were  coming. 

Having  told  Miss  Jell  that  he  had  arrived  by  the 
three-twenty,  he  proceeded  to  slay  his  own  social  im- 
portance by  announcing  that  "Marjie's  sorry  she  won't 
be  able  to  come."  He  then  drifted  over  to  the  side- 
board, taking  up  a  strong  strategical  position  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  plate  of  fruit-cake. 

Mr.  Marshall  watched  him  anxiously;  he  had  fully 


112        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

intended  to  get  back  to  it  again  later.  At  the  moment 
he  was  engaged  upon  anchovy  sandwiches,  constructed 
out  of  margarine  and  bloater-paste  of  a  strength  capa- 
ble of  disguising  anything. 

The  excitement  broke  out  again  at  the  advent  of 
Mrs.  Truspitt-Greene,  who,  as  the  second  cousin  of  a 
baronet,  bulked  large  in  the  social  life  of  Little  Bil- 
stead. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Truspitt-Greene !"  cried  Mrs.  Spelman. 
"Isn't  it  dreadful?" 

In  Little  Bilstead,  no  one  but  Lady  Warren  ever 
dared  to  omit  the  "Truspitt"  from  Mrs.  Greene's 
name. 

"I  heard  you  half-way  down  the  road,"  was  Mrs. 
Truspitt-Greene's  uncompromising  retort.  Rudeness 
was  her  pose,  rudeness  and  an  ostentatious  deference 
to  the  rulings  of  the  Almighty.  To  her  there  was  little 
virtue  in  being  the  second  cousin  of  a  baronet,  unless 
you  could  snub  the  relict  of  a  tradesman. 

"If  you  mean  about  Mr.  Warren's  return,"  con- 
tinued Mrs.  Truspitt-Greene  presently,  "I  have  heard." 

"And  what  do  you  think  of  it?"  asked  Mrs.  Spel- 
man, in  her  eagerness  forgetful  of  the  snub  she  had  just 
received. 

There  was  a  hush.  All  were  anxious  to  know  how 
the  news  would  strike  the  second  cousin  of  a  baronet. 

"Heaven  has  been  very  good,"  she  replied. 

When  any  social  uncertainty  assailed  her,  Mrs. 
Truspitt-Greene  invariably  saddled  Providence  with 
the  responsibility. 

"That's  what  I  say,"  broke  in  young  Stannard,  his 
mouth  full  of  jam-turnover,  in  the  making  of  which 
Miss  Mary  Jell  was  an  adept.  "Tophole!"  he  added, 


LITTLE  BILSTEAD  SITS  IN  JUDGMENT         113 

as  if  to  leave  no  doubt  as  to  the  soundness  of  his 
theology. 

Mrs.  Truspitt-Greene  took  the  cup  of  tea  from  the 
tray  that  Ellen  held  before  her.  She  was  a  puffy- 
faced  woman,  the  blueness  of  whose  complexion  some 
ascribed  to  bismuth  and  others  to  brandy. 

"You  mean?"  queried  Miss  Jell  of  Mrs.  Truspitt- 
Greene,  as  Ellen  extended  to  her  a  plate  containing  the 
last  ham-sandwich. 

"That  the  faith  of  our  dear  friend,  Lady  Warren, 
has  made  her  whole,"  murmured  Mrs.  Truspitt-Greene, 
taking  a  nibble  at  the  sandwich.  She  was  what  she 
herself  described  as  "a  good  churchwoman." 

"But  think  of  the  scandal !"  cried  Mrs.  Spelman. 

"The  what?"  Mrs.  Truspitt-Greene  lowered  the 
sandwich  from  her  thin  lips,  and  fixed  her  fish-like  eyes 
upon  Mrs.  Spelman's  toque. 

"The — the — "  She  paused,  uncomfortable  under 
the  other's  scrutiny  of  her  millinery.  "Don't  you  think 
it  will  be  very  awkward?"  she  finished  lamely. 

"If  God  has  so  ordained  it,  so  let  it  be,"  was  the 
response.  It  was  not  that  Mrs.  Truspitt-Greene  dis- 
liked scandal,  she  merely  objected  to  its  high-priestess 
in  Little  Bilstead. 

"I  hear  that  he  denies  he  is  Alfred  Warren,"  said 
Mrs.  Crane  thickly.  "He  says  his  name  is  James 
Smith,  and  that  he  has  lost  his  memory,"  she  added 
irrelevantly. 

A  sudden  silence  fell  upon  the  room  at  this  amazing 
announcement.  In  her  surprise  at  the  effect  of  her 
bombshell,  Mrs.  Crane  allowed  a  piece  of  viscid  pine- 
apple-flan to  slip  from  her  saucer,  and  Miss  Mary 
promptly  trod  on  it. 


114        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

For  the  first  time  in  her  self-possessed  life,  Miss 
Jell  was  at  a  loss,  whilst  Miss  Mary  was  almost  in 
tears,  owing  to  her  ineffectual  struggle  to  remove  the 
slice  of  pineapple-flan  from  the  instep  of  her  right  shoe. 

The  tension  was  relieved  by  Mr.  Marshall  giving 
tongue.  At  the  sight  of  Eric  making  for  the  last 
jam-tart,  he  had  swallowed  a  half-masticated  mouthful 
of  cokernut-cake,  some  of  which  had,  like  the  girl  in 
the  play,  taken  the  wrong  turning. 

So  far  he  had  stifled  his  agony;  but  it  would  not 
be  controlled,  and  he  now  burst  out  into  a  violent 
fit  of  coughing,  which  brought  tears  to  his  eyes  and 
his  daughter  solicitously  to  his  side. 

Nature  had  given  to  Mr.  Marshall  the  instincts  of 
the  cormorant,  without  making  the  necessary  physical 
adjustments,  with  the  result  that  he  frequently  choked. 

The  real  diversion,  however,  was  caused  by  Colonel 
Enderby,  whose  face  had  turned  an  apoplectic  purple. 
He  seemed  engaged  in  an  endeavour  to  emulate  the 
frog  in  ^sop. 

"It's  an  outrage  against  decency!"  he  cried,  his 
•moustache  bristling  like  the  quills  of  a  porcupine,  as 
he  glared  about  him  savagely. 

His  explosion  seemed  to  clear  the  air  and  loosen 
tongues,  coupled  with  the  fact  that  Miss  Mary  had 
freed  her  shoe  of  the  clinging  pineapple  and  that  Mr. 
Marshall  had  almost  recovered,  due  to  the  promptness 
ivith  which  his  daughter  administered  all  the  milk  avail- 
able, upwards  of  a  pint.  She  was  a  girl  of  quick 
decision,  and  she  knew  that  milk  was  rich  in  proteids. 

"He  thinks  to  avoid  punishment  by  denying  his  iden- 
tity," barked  the  Colonel,  "the  young  scoundrel.  In 
my  opinion  he's  insane." 


LITTLE  BILSTEAD  SITS  IN  JUDGMENT         115 

uHe  thinks  to  pull  wool  over  our  eyes,"  cried  Mrs. 
Spelman,  whose  expressions  were  sometimes  intensely 
colloquial. 

Colonel  Enderby  glared  at  her.  She  was  stealing 
his  thunder. 

"If  I  were  to  commit  a  crime,"  he  said,  still  glaring 
at  Mrs.  Spelman,  "and  go  away,  returning  years  later, 
and  saying  that  I  was  not  Colonel  Enderby,  but  had 
lost  my  memory,  would  you  believe  me?" 

A  murmur  passed  round  the  room.  Suddenly  all 
saw  the  depths  of  wickedness  to  which  Alfred  Warren 
had  sunk. 

"But  perhaps  he  really  is  Mr.  Smith,"  ventured  Miss 
Mary,  timidly.  She  had  always  a  thought  and  a  word 
for  the  under-dog. 

"Be  quiet,  Mary,"  said  Miss  Jell  severely.  "You 
forget  that  Willis  and  Mrs.  Higgs  recognised  him  as 
well  as  ourselves.  I  knew  him  at  once,"  she  added, 
as  if  to  leave  no  loophole  for  doubt. 

This  was  bombshell  number  two.  Their  hostess — 
they  always  regarded  Miss  Jell  as  their  hostess,  had 
actually  seen  and  recognised  the  reprobate.  Every- 
body said  something,  and  each  seemed  to  hurl  an  ex- 
cited question  at  Miss  Jell. 

"I  don't  believe  it !  There  are  no  Dromios  in  real 
life,"  announced  Mrs.  Truspitt-Greene  with  decision. 
She  was  proud  of  her  knowledge  of  Shakespeare. 

There  was  a  sudden  hush.  No  one  knew  what  a 
dromio  actually  was,  or  if  it  were  respectable. 

"Would  the  law  exonerate  me  from  responsibility?" 
demanded  Colonel  Enderby,  determined  to  recapture 
the  ball  of  conversation.  "Would  it,  marm?"  he  de- 
manded of  Miss  Jell.  "No !"  he  barked,  without  wait- 


116        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

ing  for  a  reply,  and  that  bark  caused  Mr.  Marshall 
hurriedly  to  withdraw  the  hand  he  had  extended  to- 
wards the  last  piece  of  currant  cake. 

Again  there  was  a  murmur  of  approval.  Colonel 
Enderby  had  once  more  become  the  centre  of  interest, 
and  for  the  next  five  minutes  he  held  forth  on  the 
iniquity  of  Alfred  Warren  in  endeavouring  to  evade 
responsibility  for  his  past  crimes  and  misdemeanours, 
by  announcing  that  he  was  not  Alfred  Warren,  and 
had  lost  his  memory. 

"I  shall  inform  the  police,"  he  announced  at  length. 
"I  may  even  write  to  the  Chief  Commissioner  at  Scot- 
land Yard." 

Having  beaten  Mr.  Marshall  in  a  dash  for  the  last 
cheese-cake,  which  he  demolished  in  two  bites,  Eric 
Stannard  threw  himself  into  the  fray. 

"Jolly  rotten,  I  call  it,"  he  said  to  no  one  in  par- 
ticular, "slicing  up  a  fellow  in  his  ab." 

"You're  too  young  to  understand,  Eric,"  said  Mrs. 
Pelham,  a  comfortable  looking  body  in  puce  and  myrtle 
green. 

"He's  turned  over  a  new  leaf,"  was  the  uncompro- 
mising retort.  "Prods  always  do,  that's  why  they're 
prods." 

"You  mustn't  talk  about  things  you  don't  under- 
stand, Eric,"  said  Miss  Jell  firmly. 

There  came  over  young  Stannard's  generously 
freckled  face  a  look  of  obstinacy. 

"Anyhow,  it  isn't  fair  to  slice  him  up  when  he  isn't 
here,  is  it,  Mrs.  Crane?"  he  asked,  turning  to  the  doc- 
tor's wife. 

"Is  it  what,  Eric?"  she  queried.  Mrs.  Crane  was, 
as  Mrs.  Truspitt-Greene  put  it,  fat  and  stupid. 


LITTLE  BILSTEAD  SITS  IN  JUDGMENT         117 

"Is  it  fair  to  cut  out  a  fellow's  giz  when  he  isn't 
here?" 

"Really,  Eric,"  protested  Miss  Jell,  "you  ought  not 
to  use  such  expressions." 

"Sorry,  Miss  Jell,"  he  grinned,  "but  it  slipped  out. 
Anyhow,"  he  continued,  turning  to  Mrs.  Spelman,  "I'm 
going  to  back  him  up,  and  so  will  father.  He's  a  dab 
at  backing  also-rans." 

As  an  historian  and  a  Fellow  of  Kings,  Miles  Stan- 
nard  was  noted  for  his  uncompromising  champion- 
ship of  the  Monmouths  and  the  Perkin  Warbecks  of 
history. 

"Well,  I  must  buzz-off,"  said  Eric,  extending  a  du- 
bious hand  to  Miss  Jell.  There  was  nothing  now  to 
wait  for,  and  he  would  still  be  in  time  for  another  tea 
at  The  Grange. 

Two  minutes  later  he  was  making  good  progress  in 
the  direction  of  home.  The  run  upon  the  Miss  Jells' 
refreshments,  that  afternoon,  had  been  in  excess  of  the 
supply,  owing  to  the  unprecedented  number  of  callers 
and,  in  consequence,  Eric  and  Mr.  Marshall  had  suf- 
fered. 

For  the  next  two  hours  social  Little  Bilstead  dis- 
cussed the  return  of  Alfred  Warren  and  what  it  might 
mean  to  them  and  the  neighbourhood.  All  were  agreed 
that  it  would  be  impossible  to  receive  him;  yet  there 
was  not  one  there  who  did  not  yearn  to  meet  him. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

ERIC  STANNARD  PROMISES  SUPPORT 


"T  SAY,  are  you  the  prod?" 

Smith  started,  nearly  overbalancing  himself 
from  the  top  of  the  gate,  where  for  the  last 
hour  or  more  he  had  been  smoking  and  meditating 
upon  the  photographs  he  had  just  seen  in  Mrs.  Higgs's 
album.  Gazing  up  at  him  stood  a  red-headed  boy  of 
about  fourteen,  his  freckled  features  screwed  up,  either 
in  interrogation  or  because  the  sun  was  in  his  eyes, 
Smith  could  not  determine  which. 

"I  say,  are  you  the  prod?"  he  repeated. 

"The  what?"  queried  Smith,  recovering  from  his 
surprise. 

"The  prodigal,  you  know." 

"I  was  afraid  some  vagrant  husk  would  betray  me," 
Jie  smiled,  as  he  proceeded  to  dig  in  the  bowl  of  his  pipe. 

The  boy  stared,  then  he  grinned. 

"It  must  be  rare  sport  being  a  prod,"  he  remarked, 
as  he  proceeded  to  subject  Smith  to  a  thorough  and  un- 
embarrassed scrutiny,  "although  I  suppose  it's  fairly 
rotten  hanging  about  waiting  for  the  what-you-call-it 
moment." 

"It  was,  as  you  say,  unspeakably  rotten,"  Smith 
assured  him  gravely. 

Again  the  boy  regarded  him  with  a  puzzled  expres- 
sion. 

118 


ERIC  STANNARD  PROMISES  SUPPORT 

"I  say,  I  hope  I  don't  seem  impert,"  he  said  at 
length. 

"Not  at  all.  If  you  don't  see  what  you  require  in 
the  window,  step  inside." 

"You  pulling  my  tib,  what!" 

"Nothing  was  further  from  my  thoughts,"  Smith 
assured  him,  "even  if  I  knew  just  where  your  tib 
lurks." 

"They've  been  holding  an  inquest  on  you  at  the 
Jelleries,"  the  boy  volunteered  after  a  pause,  during 
which  he  seemed  to  be  engaged  in  a  fruitless  endeavour 
to  get  at  Smith's  meaning.  "That  old  ass  End,  Colonel 
Enderby,  you  know,  talked  'pie'  like  a  pussyfoot.  Gave 
me  a  pain  in  my  giz.  I  stuck  up  for  you  though,  and 
then  the  temp  got  a  bit  low,  so  I  slithered." 

"And  why,"  enquired  Smith,  as  he  gazed  down  at 
his  self-constituted  defender,  "why  did  you  champion 
the  monosyllabic  prod?" 

"The  what?" 

"Well,  the  prod  without  the  qualification,"  sug- 
gested Smith. 

"I  say,  you're  a  bit  whonky,  aren't  you?"  He  re- 
garded Smith  with  a  puzzled  expression  that  relieved 
his  remark  of  any  suggestion  of  impertinence.  "That 
was  what  all  the  row  was  about  this  afternoon  with 
old  End.  He  said  you  went  away  funny  in  your  habits 
and  came  back  ditto  in  your  brain.  You  get  me?" 

"Generally  by  playing  back,"  said  Smith  with  a  smile. 
"There's  an  awkward  spin  about  your  conversation." 

"I  didn't  know  you  played  cricket,"  he  cried,  his  eyes 
brightening,  and  the  puzzled  frown  vanishing  from  his 
forehead.  "My  name's  Stannard,"  he  added  inconse- 
quently.  "You  know  my  sister,  Marjorie." 


120        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

Smith  folded  up  his  tobacco-pouch  and  returned  it  to 
his  pocket.  The  information  that  this  rather  startling 
youth,  with  the  flaming  hair  and  archipelago  of 
freckles,  was  Marjorie's  brother,  seemed  to  affect  the 
situation. 

"I've  come  to  stay  with  Marjie,"  he  added.  "You'd 
just  gone  out  when  I  arrived." 

"The  loss  was  obviously  mine,"  said  Smith  gravely. 

"I  say,  you're  a  bit  rummy  about  the  top,  aren't 
you?" 

"I'm  beginning  seriously  to  suspect  it,"  was  the  reply 
as  he  struck  a  match  and  proceeded  to  light  his  pipe. 
The  boy  continued  to  regard  him,  his  face  once  more 
screwed  up  interrogatingly. 

"Bit  of  a  rabbit,  aren't  you?"  he  enquired,  regard- 
ing Smith  quizzically. 

"We  can't  all  be  Gunns." 

"I  say,  that's  jolly  good,  you  know.  I'll  tell  Marjie. 
She  likes  things  like  that.  You'll  play  for  us  against 
the  Upper  Saxton  blighters?" 

"Willingly." 

"We  shall  get  licked  again,"  he  said  with  conviction. 
"We  always  do  get  licked.  We  lack  guts,  you  see,  and 
it's  rotten." 

"It  must  be  inconvenient,"  agreed  Smith,  "almost 
Promethean." 

"I  wonder  how  you'll  get  on  with  Marsh,"  he  con- 
tinued, regarding  Smith  with  his  head  slightly  on  one 
side,  as  if  the  answer  were  written  somewhere  upon  his 
person.  "He  got  me  first  ball  last  year,"  and  he  went 
on  to  explain  that  Marsh  was  the  demon  bowler  of  the 
enemy  combination. 

There   was    a    short    silence,    during   which    Smith 


ERIC  STANNARD  PROMISES  SUPPORT        121 

smoked  meditatively,  whilst  young  Stannard  continued 
to  eye  him  with  the  unembarrassed  stare  of  youth. 

"I  say,"  he  said  at  last.  "If  I  tell  you  my  other 
name,  you  won't  rot  me?" 

"I  should  scorn  to  take  so  unfair  an  advantage," 
Smith  assured  him. 

"Honest  Inj?" 

"Honest  Inj,"  smiled  Smith.  He  was  getting  to  like 
this  frank  and  inconsequent  youngster. 

"Well,  it's  Eric,"  said  the  boy,  and  he  stood  as  if 
expecting  some  manifestation  of  surprise  or  disap- 
proval. 

"Eric!"  repeated  Smith.  "It  seems  quite  a  nice 
name,  economical  in  syllables.  You  don't  require  a 
Pelman  course  to  remember  it." 

"I  see  you  don't  know,"  he  said  with  a  sigh,  "or  else 
you've  forgotten.  Years  ago  some  old  blighter  wrote 
a  book  called  Eric,  or  Little  by  Little,  and  every  one 
calls  me  'Little  by  Little.'  " 

"I  see." 

"It's  rotten." 

"And  a  sheer  waste  of  three  syllables,"  agreed  Smith. 
"By  the  way,  you  haven't  told  me  why  you  championed 
me  at  the — "  He  paused. 

"The  Jelleries,"  said  Eric.  "The  Miss  Jells,  you 
know.  Tame  cats,  stiff  as  muslin,  and  all  that  silly 
rot;  but  quite  dece." 

"I  see,"  was  the  dry  retort;  "but  why  the  champion- 
ing?" 

"I  don't  know,"  he  cried,  shaking  his  head.  "That's 
just  like  me.  I  suppose  I  get  it  from  the  pater.  We're 
always  on  the  other  side." 

"The  shady  side?"  suggested  Smith. 


122        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

"I  hate  to  hear  a  chap  sliced-up  when,  when — oh! 
you  know,"  he  said,  missing  the  allusion. 

Smith  nodded. 

"Of  course,"  he  continued,  "I  know  you've  got  into 
somebody's  oesoph — " 

"Into  somebody's  what?" 

"Sorry,  oesophagus,"  he  grinned.  "Rotten  habit  I've 
got  into.  Marjie  hates  it;  but  I  stuck  up  for  you,  and 
now  I  know  you,  I  don't  care.  If  we  beat  those  Upper 
Saxton  blighters,  I  shan't  care  a  damn." 

"I  observe  the  distinction,"  said  Smith,  knocking  his 
pipe  against  the  heel  of  his  boot. 

"If  you  knock  up  a  few  runs,  you  know,"  continued 
Eric,  "especially  off  Marsh,  you'll  have  every  fellow 
in  the  place  on  your  side.  The  vicar's  a  rare  old  sport. 
He  played  for  Oxford  donkeys  years  ago." 

"But  how  about  the  Miss  Jells?" 

"The  Jells.  Oh !  they're  all  right,  frightfully  respec 
and  all  that  sort  of  tosh;  but  you  just  keep  it  up." 

"I  most  undoubtedly  will,"  said  Smith.  "By  the 
way,  what  is  it  I'm  supposed  to  be  keeping  up?" 

"The  wang,  of  course." 

"Excellent,  my  dear  Watson,"  murmured  Smith. 

"Eh?" 

"I'm  sorry.  For  the  moment  I  thought  I  was  a  great 
investigator  endeavouring  to  arrive  at  your  meaning 
via  'the  wang.' ' 

"I  get  you,"  laughed  Eric,  displaying  a  strong  but 
uneven  set  of  teeth  set  in  pale  gums.  "The  wangle, 
you  know,  just  keep  it  up." 

"That,  I  take  it,  is  your  considered  advice." 

Eric  agreed  with  a  grin. 

"You'll  find  Marjie  a  regular  old  water-jump,"  he 


ERIC  STANNARD  PROMISES  SUPPORT        123 

added  confidentially.  "I  plumped  right  in  the  mid  in 
the  paper  chase,"  he  added  inconsequently. 

"I  thought  there  was  something  unusual  about  her." 

"She's  a  ripper;  but  she's  a  bit,  a  bit — "  He  hesi- 
tated. "Anyhow,  I'll  do  what  I  can  to  break  her  prej," 
he  added. 

"I  shall  take  it  as  a  favour  if  you  will,"  said  Smith 
gravely. 

During  the  next  quarter-of-an-hour,  Eric  Stannard 
told  Smith  much  about  Little  Bilstead  and  its  inhabi- 
tants, and  not  a  little  about  his  sister,  who,  in  his 
phraseology,  was  "absolutely  tophole." 

"Now  I'm  afraid  I  must  slith,"  said  Smith,  when 
the  stream  of  Eric's  information  showed  signs  of  dry- 
ing up. 

"What's  that?"  he  queried  with  puzzled  eyes. 

"I  gathered  that  was  the  local  contraction  for  tak- 
ing one's  departure." 

"I  say,  I'm  glad  you  came,"  cried  Eric  heartily,  as 
he  extended  a  big,  grubby  hand,  "and  that  you're  going 
to  play.  Where  do  you  go  in?" 

"Mostly  in  the  soup  these  days,"  replied  Smith, 
whereat  Stannard  developed  a  veritable  Roosevelt 
smile. 

A  moment  later,  Smith  was  swinging  along  the  road 
in  the  direction  of  the  vicarage,  whilst  Eric  watched 
him  from  the  middle  of  the  road  until  he  was  out  of 
sight,  and  then  reluctantly  turned  and  made  his  way 
towards  The  Grange. 

II 

"I've  seen  the  prod,  Marjie." 

"I  didn't  hear  you  knock,  Eric,"  said  Marjorie,  as 


124        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

she  turned  from  her  dressing-table,  at  the  corners  of 
her  mouth  the  faint  smile  with  which  she  always  greeted 
her  brother. 

"Rats!" 

uRats  agreed;  still—" 

"More  rats.  I've  seen  the  prod,  and  he's  going  to 
help  us  whack  those  Upper  Saxton  blighters." 

"About  that  knock  I  didn't  hear,  Eric,"  she  persisted. 

"Don't  be  an  ass,  Marjie,"  he  cried,  as  he  threw  him- 
self full  length  upon  the  bed.  "I'm  tired." 

Marjorie  advanced  upon  him  with  a  hatpin. 

Rolling  across  the  bed,  he  slipped  off  the  other  side. 
Marjorie  replaced  the  hatpin  upon  the  dressing-table, 
determining  in  future  to  lock  her  door  against  the  in- 
cursions of  this  young  Visigoth. 

"I  like  the  prod,"  he  volunteered. 

"What  makes  you  think  that  Mr.  Warren  will  help 
us  to  win?"  she  enquired,  dropping  into  a  chair,  and 
keeping  a  wary  eye  on  her  brother,  in  case  of  further 
manifestations  of  robustiousness. 

"He  said  he  would — play,  I  mean.  I  believe  he  can, 
too,"  he  added  with  conviction. 

"Did  he  tell  you  that  he  was  a  good  player?" 

"Oh!  don't  talk  rot,  Marjie.  Fellows  don't  say 
things  like  that  to  each  other." 

"Then  how?" 

"It  was  what  he  said  about  what  I  said  to  him  that 
made  me — "  He  paused,  as  if  conscious  of  the  crude- 
ness  of  his  construction. 

"I  see,"  she  said  drily. 

A  moment  later,  a  red  head  seemed  to  hurl  itself 
violently  towards  her,  the  wicker-chair  in  which  she 
sat  was  thrown  over  backwards,  and  a  wild  melee  en- 


ERIC  STANNARD  PROMISES  SUPPORT        125 

sued,  in  which  there  were  occasional  glimpses  of  a  pair 
of  shapely  silk-stockinged  legs,  a  red  head,  and  a 
freckled  face. 

Presently  the  silk-stockinged  legs  were  firmly  planted 
upon  the  chest  belonging  to  the  freckled  face. 

"Now,  Eric,"  cried  Marjorie,  flushed  and  panting. 
"I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

"Well,  get  off  my  stomach  then,"  he  cried  indig- 
nantly. 

"I'm  kneeling  on  your  chest." 

"My  chest's  not  down  there,  it's  up  here." 

"Our  views  on  anatomy  differ,  Eric.  I  am  not  go- 
ing to  get  up  until  you  promise  to  remember  that  I  am 
grown-up,  and  you  must  not — "  She  paused,  at  a  loss 
exactly  how  to  describe  the  assault. 

"All  right,  Marjie.    Get  off  my — " 

"Chest,"  she  interrupted. 

"Well,  chest  then." 

"You  promise." 

"Honest  Inj." 

Marjorie  rose  to  her  feet  and,  going  over  to  the 
looking-glass,  proceeded  to  tuck  her  disordered  hair 
into  some  semblance  of  tidiness. 

"Now  sit  down,"  she  said  at  length,  as  she  turned 
from  the  mirror.  "I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

Eric  edged  towards  the  door.  There  was  that  about 
his  sister's  tone  that  warned  him  to  be  ready  for  flight. 
His  life  seemed  to  be  one.  long  endeavour  to  avoid 
people  who  wanted  to  talk  to  him.  Such  misguided 
efforts  always  crystallised  into  the  same  things,  warn- 
ing, advice,  or  condemnation,  mostly  all  three  together. 

"Eric,"  she  continued.  "I  don't  want  you  to  see 
much  of  Mr.  Warren  while  you're  staying  here." 


126        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

"Why?"  he  challenged. 

She  hesitated  a  moment  before  replying. 

"Because — well,  because  I  don't." 

"But  why?"  he  persisted.     "He's  frightfully  dece." 

"Eric,  dear,  please  be  good  and  do  as  I  ask,"  she 
pleaded.  "I  can't  explain;  but  Mr.  Warren  has — has 
done  things  that — " 

"You  don't  like,  I  suppose,"  he  concluded  scornfully. 
"That's  like  a  girl.  They're  always  prej.  Look  at 
them  this  afternoon  at  the  Jelleries.  They  sliced  him 
up  into  frags.  Old  End  was  like  our  Head  when  we 
lost  the  footer-cup." 

Marjorie  looked  startled.  She  was  uncertain  how 
much  Eric  understood  of  what  he  may  have  heard  at 
The  Cedars.  She  regarded  him  speculatively.  The 
situation  was  fraught  with  difficulties. 

"Very  well,  Eric,"  she  said  at  length,  with  an  air 
of  reluctant  decision.  "I  shall  have  to  speak  to  father." 

"You  daren't,"  he  grinned. 

"Why  daren't  I  ?"  she  challenged  weakly. 

"Because  I  should  never  speak  to  you  again,  and 
besides,"  he  added,  "you  couldn't  sneak." 

For  a  moment  she  stood  regarding  him,  a  faint  smile 
curving  her  lips.  She  and  Eric  had  always  been  great 
friends. 

"Even  if  you  did,"  he  continued,  "it  wouldn't  make 
any  diff.  Father's  as  keen  on  prods  as  I  am  on  getting 
into  the  second  eleven  next  term.  He's  always  on  the 
side  of  the  under  dog." 

Marjorie  knew  it,  and  a  soft  look  came  into  her  eyes. 
Ever  since  she  was  quite  a  tiny  girl  she  had  "mothered" 
the  gentle-natured  father,  who,  since  the  death  of  his 


ERIC  STANNARD  PROMISES  SUPPORT        127 

wife,  had  lived  the  life  of  a  recluse,  happy  only  when 
surrounded  by  his  books. 

"That's  why  they  booted  him  off  the  bench,"  con- 
tinued Eric. 

Marjorie  smiled  at  the  recollection  of  what  had 
ensued  as  a  result  of  Miles  Stannard  being  made  a 
justice  of  the  peace.  His  conviction  that  crime  was  a 
subject  for  therapeutical  treatment  had  at  first  be- 
wildered his  colleagues,  subsequently  it  angered  them, 
particularly  in  cases  of  poaching.  At  length  they  had 
made  it  clear  that  they  could  not  continue  to  sit  on  the 
same  bench  with  a  man  who  held  such  fantastical  ideas 
upon  crime  and  punishment. 

"Won't  you  do  it  to  please  me?"  she  pleaded. 

"Do  what?"  he  demanded. 

"See  as  little  as  possible  of  Mr.  Warren." 

"He's  Lady  Warren's  son,"  parried  Eric,  an  ob- 
stinate look  in  his  eyes.  "He's  quite  respec." 

With  a  sigh  Marjorie  picked  up  a  book  and  dropped 
into  a  chair  by  the  window,  and  Eric,  taking  it  as  a  sign 
of  dismissal,  walked  towards  the  door. 

"Wait  until  he's  helped  us  to  whack  Upper  Saxton," 
he  threw  over  his  shoulder  as  he  went  out,  "then  you'll 
want  to  lick  his  boots,"  and  with  that  he  was  gone. 

Marjorie  dropped  the  book  upon  her  lap.  If  Alfred 
Warren  really  did  bring  about  the  defeat  of  the  rival 
village,  upon  which  she  was  as  keen  as  the  vicar  him- 
self, it  would  certainly  complicate  matters.  She  had 
always  heard  that  the  heir  to  The  Grange  hated  all 
forms  of  sport  that  did  not  involve  the  carrying  of  a 
gun,  and  that  he  had  only  played  in  the  cricket-match 
because  pressure  was  brought  to  bear  upon  him. 


128        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

As  she  sat  gazing  out  of  the  window,  her  thoughts 
drifted  back  to  the  days  when,  as  a  schoolgirl,  her  entry 
into  a  Little  Bilstead  drawing-room  had  so  often  been 
followed  by  a  sudden  hush.  In  time  she  had  come  to 
realise  the  significance  of  such  episodes — they  meant 
that  Alfred  Warren  was  the  subject  of  conversation. 

The  servants,  however,  had  been  less  discreet,  and 
she  had  heard  many  stories  of  his  excesses.  Some  she 
failed  to  understand,  others  had  made  her  feel  afraid. 
In  time  the  name  of  Alfred  Warren  had  become  associ- 
ated in  her  mind  with  wrong,  and  she  had  instinctively 
avoided  him. 

When  by  chance  he  had  come  into  a  room  where  she 
was  with  Lady  Warren,  he  would  sometimes  give  her  a 
little  nod  and  smile  of  recognition.  At  other  times  he 
would  ignore  her  altogether,  as  if  she  were  a  stranger. 
To  him  she  was  obviously  nothing  more  than  a  child. 

She  recalled  how  puzzled  she  had  been  that  Lady 
Warren,  Willis,  Mrs.  Higgs  and  the  other  servants 
could  make  such  a  fuss  of  any  one  who  had  been  so 
wicked. 

Once  she  had  seen  him  staggering  through  the  vil- 
lage singing  to  himself.  It  was  her  first  experience  of 
intoxication.  She  remembered  how  she  had  run  all  the 
way  back  to  The  Grange,  where  she  had  locked  herself 
in  her  room  and  refused  to  go  down  to  dinner. 

Now  Alfred  Warren  had  returned;  but  try  as  she 
might,  the  old  sensations  refused  to  be  aroused.  Why 
was  it?  Why  had  the  old  fear  of  him  vanished?  Had 
she  become  more  tolerant?  No,  it  could  not  be  that; 
for  she  had  on  more  than  one  occasion  deliberately  set 
to  work  to  recall  the  things  she  had  heard  about  him, 
and  they  awakened  in  her  now  an  even  greater  dislike 


ERIC  STANNARD  PROMISES  SUPPORT         129 

than  when  she  had  first  heard  them — she  understood 
better. 

Then  Eric  liked  him,  and  Eric  was  a  creature  of  in- 
stinct. Could  he  like  a  really  bad  man?  Would  Nero 
like  him  too?  She  had  never  known  Nero  like  any 
one  whom  she  disliked.  Hitherto  she  had  thought  that 
badness  always  left  its  mark;  yet  she  had  sat  at 
luncheon  with  him  and — no,  she  certainly  had  not 
minded.  The  meal  had  seemed  very  short. 

Could  she  have  sat  alone  at  the  same  table  with  him 
before  he — she  shuddered. 

What  had  changed  things? 

Why  was  it  then  that  his  presence  no  longer  seemed 
to  inspire  her  with  dislike?  Why  did  she  have  to  keep 
reminding  herself  of  what  he  had  done?  Why  was 
she—? 

With  a  swift  movement  she  picked  up  the  book  that 
lay  neglected  upon  her  lap  and,  opening  it  at  random, 
proceeded  to  read. 

She  would  not  think  of  Alfred  Warren. 


CHAPTER  IX 

MISS   LIPSCOMBE   DECIDES   ON  NEUTRALITY 

A  he  dressed  for  dinner  that  evening,  Smith 
realised  the  absurdity  of  the  doctrine  of  free 
will.  Here  was  he,  as  free  a  subject  as  ever 
raised  his  glass  to  the  toast  of  "The  King,  God  bless 
him!"  continuing  in  a  false  position,  deliberately  aiding 
and  abetting — well,  perhaps  not  a  fraud,  but  at  least 
a  misunderstanding. 

What  would  his  uncle  say?  What  would  his  Aunt 
Charlotte  not  say,  and  it  was  always  the  things  that 
Mrs.  Compton-Stacey  refrained  from  saying  that  con- 
stituted her  a  power  in  the  family  councils.  Above  all, 
what  would  Peters  "look"  (and  Peters'  "look"  had 
been  known  to  pierce  the  epidermis  of  a  profiteer)  if 
they  could  see  the  heir  to  the  Hildreth  baronetcy  and 
estates  deliberately  taking  advantage  of  his  likeness 
to  another  man. 

Why  was  he  doing  it? 

"Confound  the  stud!" 

For  the  next  minute  his  whole  attention  was  occupied 
in  retrieving  the  collar-stud  that  had  disappeared  some- 
where inside  his  shirt.  Having  dug  it  out,  he  picked 
up  the  thread  of  his  previous  preoccupation. 

Why  was  he  staying  on?  He  could  hire  a  car  to 
take  him  to  Norwich,  and  so  reach  Cromer,  the  destina- 
tion he  had  planned.  No!  he  preferred  to  remain  on 
and  reap  the  whirlwind  of  another  man's  sowing. 

Why? 

130 


MISS  LIPSCOMBE  DECIDES  ON  NEUTRALITY      131 

Across  his  mind's  eye  there  flashed  the  memory  of 
a  suddenly  illuminated  window,  at  which  stood  a  girl 
in  a  green  frock,  looking  out  into  the  rain-drenched 
night,  apparently  at  him. 

With  an  impatient  tug  he  adjusted  his  black  tie  to 
the  correct  angle,  and  proceeded  to  thrust  an  arm  into 
his  waistcoat,  his  thoughts  switching  on  to  the  scene 
at  The  Grange  an  hour  before  when  he  had  announced 
his  impending  departure. 

The  wails  of  Mrs.  Higgs,  the  scarcely  restrained 
tears  of  Willis,  the  grin  of  young  Nudd  in  the  back- 
ground; all  had  conspired  to  make  his  departure  almost 
as  dramatic  as  his  arrival.  The  two  old  servants  had 
pleaded  and  protested,  Mrs.  Higgs  in  particular, 
against  his  going  to  the  vicarage.  What  would  her 
Ladyship  do?  What  would  the  county  think?  What 
would  the  villagers  say?  had  been  the  burden  of  their 
exhortation. 

At  one  period  it  had  seemed  that  nothing  short  of 
physical  force  would  detach  the  tearful  and  loudly  pro- 
testing Mrs.  Higgs  from  his  coat-sleeve;  but  a  miracle 
had  happened  in  the  sudden  appearance  of  Marjorie. 

In  a  few  words,  accompanied  by  a  little  smile,  which 
both  Willis  and  Mrs  Higgs  had  taken  as  a  purely  per- 
sonal affair,  she  had  soothed  the  one,  and  detached  the 
other  from  his  coat-sleeve,  and  he  had  been  permitted 
to  leave,  accompanied  by  young  Nudd  carrying  his  bag. 

The  sound  of  the  dinner-gong  brought  Smith  back 
with  a  jerk  to  the  present.  Hastily  slipping  into  his 
dinner-jacket,  he  made  his  way  downstairs,  to  find 
Miss  Lipscombe  waiting  for  him  in  the  hall. 

"I  thought  you  might  lose  yourself  in  this  ram- 
shackle old  place,"  she  explained,  as  she  led  the  way 


132        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

to  the  dining-room.  "We  are  six  hundred  years  old," 
she  added. 

During  the  meal  that  followed,  Smith  discovered 
that,  conversationally,  the  vicar  scarcely  existed.  A 
direct  remark  would  bring  him  from  the  world  of  his 
own  thoughts  with  a  sudden  start;  but  he  slipped  back 
again  as  soon  as  the  attention  of  the  others  was  di- 
verted. 

Several  times  during  the  evening,  Smith  found  him- 
self speculating  as  to  what  it  was  that  monopolised  the 
vicar's  thoughts,  and  it  was  not  until  Miss  Lipscombe 
explained  that  he  was  "a  minister  of  the  gospel  pre- 
occupied with  paganism"  that  he  realised  the  true  sig- 
nificance of  the  momentary  look  of  bewilderment  that 
came  into  the  old  man's  eyes  when  he  was  directly  ad- 
dressed. 

Smith  longed  to  enquire  of  Miss  Lipscombe  what  it 
actually  was  that  had  caused  Alfred  Warren's  sudden 
disappearance  from  Little  Bilstead;  but  the  question 
was  one  that  seemed  incapable  of  framing  itself.  After 
all,  it  was  Warren's  secret,  and  there  was  something 
almost  indecent  in  probing  into  the  unsavoury  past  of 
another  man. 

As  she  talked,  Smith  was  conscious  that  Miss  Lip- 
scombe was  studying  him,  weighing  him  up,  it  seemed. 
Her  grave  grey  eyes  appeared  to  be  searching  him 
through  and  through.  Her  conversation  dealt  for  the 
most  part  with  generalities  and  the  news  of  the  day. 
When  she  had  occasion  to  refer  to  the  parish,  or  to 
any  one  living  in  the  neighbourhood,  it  was  in  an  en- 
tirely impersonal  manner,  just  as  if  she  were  addressing 
one  who  was  an  entire  stranger  to  the  neighbourhood. 

After  the  meal,  the  vicar  retired  to  his  study,  there 


MISS  LIPSCOMBE  DECIDES  ON  NEUTRALITY      133 

to  lave  himself  in  the  classics  he  so  loved,  whilst  Smith 
accompanied  Miss  Lipscombe  to  the  drawing-room. 

At  first  he  thought  she  would  select  this  as  the 
occasion  of  a  more  intimate  talk;  but  no — she  main- 
tained the  same  impersonal  plane  of  small  talk  as  at 
dinner. 

He  learned  much  about  Little  Bilstead.  There  was 
a  dryness  about  Miss  Lipscombe's  descriptions  that 
suggested  both  humour  and  humanity  lurking  behind 
her  words.  Among  other  things,  he  learned  that  the 
forthcoming  cricket-match  was  the  al  fresco  event  of 
the  year.  As  far  as  he  could  gather,  it  was  to  Little 
Bilstead  something  between  a  Football  Cup  Final  and 
Oxford  and  Cambridge  at  Lord's — it  appealed  alike 
to  the  proletariat  and  the  patrician. 

He  discovered  that  he  was  expected  to  play,  as  it 
seemed  to  have  become  a  time-honoured  custom  that 
Alfred  Warren  should  form  part  of  the  Little  Bilstead 
"tail,"  which  according  to  Miss  Lipscombe  existed 
primarily  for  the  improvement  of  the  bowling-aver- 
ages of  the  enemy. 

He  gathered  that  Alfred  Warren  had  disliked  field 
sports,  although  he  was  a  tolerable  shot,  and  hunted 
in  spasmodic  fashion.  His  playing  in  the  cricket-match 
was  his  sop  to  the  Cerberus  of  public  opinion. 

He  learned  a  great  deal  about  the  social  life  of  Little 
Bilstead,  more  from  Miss  Lipscombe's  expression  and 
the  inflection  of  her  voice  than  from  her  actual  words. 
Miss  Jell  was  a  prig,  he  decided,  whereas  Miss  Mary 
was  sweet  and  lovable,  and  very  popular  in  the  village. 
Dr.  Crane  was  a  "married  bachelor,"  it  was  her  way 
of  conveying  his  intense  selfishness,  and  Mrs.  Crane 
was  a  door-mat. 


134        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

Of  Marjorie,  Miss  Lipscombe  said  little;  but  that 
little  suggested  to  his  eager  ears  that  she  was  the  most 
popular  being  in  the  parish.  Her  brother  was  "a  young 
scapegrace,"  Smith  was  assured,  but  there  was  a  flicker 
about  the  corners  of  Miss  Lipscombe's  mouth  when 
she  gave  the  assurance,  which  convinced  him  that  in 
the  abundance  of  her  charity  there  was  a  special  place 
for  scapegraces,  and  possibly  even  a  little  affection. 

The  vicar  was  of  the  world  unworldly.  The  only 
thing  that  ever  brought  him  from  "the  back  blocks 
of  Atticism"  was  cricket.  The  annual  encounter  be- 
tween Little  Bilstead  and  Upper  Saxton  always  excited 
him  to  such  a  degree  that  Miss  Lipscombe  had  to  insist 
that  the  sermons  for  the  Sunday  to  follow  should  be 
written  before  the  event,  no  matter  on  what  day  the 
match  were  played.  If  they  were  left  until  after,  they 
would  either  be  forgotten  altogether,  or  would  so 
smack  of  cricket  as  to  become  a  direct  invitation  for  a 
rebuke  from  the  bishop. 

"He  would  rather  meet  a  sinner  with  a  century  to 
his  name  than  a  saint  who  had  failed  to  score,"  was 
Miss  Lipscombe's  definition  of  her  brother's  charac- 
ter; but  it  was  given  in  such  a  tone  that  conveyed  to 
Smith  the  conviction  that  she  was  not  so  very  far  from 
sharing  his  view. 

There  were  many  stories  in  Little  Bilstead  of  the 
vicar's  absent-mindedness. 

On  one  occasion  at  a  christening,  he  had  turned  from 
the  font,  the  baby  still  in  his  arms,  and  walked  slowly 
towards  the  vestry,  forgetful  that  the  infant  had  to  be 
returned  to  its  parent. 

On  the  night  of  the  Armistice,  he  had  gone  down 
to  the  village,  where  he  had  drunk  a  cup  of  cider  out- 


MISS  LIPSCOMBE  DECIDES  ON  NEUTRALITY      135 

side  The  Pigeons.  Then,  inspired  by  the  excitement  of 
the  moment,  he  had  offered  up  a  prayer,  not,  as  he  had 
intended,  for  the  guidance  of  those  at  the  national 
helm;  but  for  rain! 

In  the  middle  of  the  night  he  had  realised  his  lapse, 
and  had  sought  counsel  with  his  sister.  She  had 
promptly  ordered  him  back  to  bed,  at  the  same  time 
easing  his  conscience  by  telling  him  that,  in  any  case, 
rain  was  badly  needed. 

In  speaking  of  her  brother,  Smith  noticed  that  Miss 
Lipscombe's  whole  manner  underwent  a  change.  The 
tendency  of  her  features  towards  severity  of  expression 
vanished,  the  humorous  lines  at  the  corners  of  her 
mouth  sprang  into  prominence,  and  her  voice  softened 
to  the  tone  of  a  mother  speaking  of  a  much-loved  child. 

Marjorie,  he  gathered,  spent  much  of  her  time  at 
The  Grange.  She  had  always  been  a  great  favourite 
with  Lady  Warren;  and  during  the  last  few  years  had 
been  almost  a  daughter  to  her.  It  was  only  the  claims 
of  her  own  father  and  brother  that  had  prevented  her 
from  accompanying  Lady  Warren  upon  her  voyage  to 
South  Africa. 

She  was  a  fine  horsewoman,  and  invariably  rode 
cross-country.  Her  horse,  Nero,  had  been  a  present 
from  Lady  Warren,  and  he  was  permanently  stabled  at 
The  Grange. 

"He  is  utterly  spoiled,"  was  Miss  Lipscombe's 
verdict  upon  Nero,  "and  I  wonder  he  doesn't  get 
diabetes  from  the  amount  of  sugar  he  eats,"  she  added; 
but  again  there  was  nothing  but  good-natured  tolerance 
in  her  voice.  Smith  shrewdly  suspected  that  Miss  Lip- 
scombe  was  among  those  who  pandered  to  Nero's 
weakness. 


136        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

Presently  they  touched  upon  the  cause  of  his  being 
there. 

"Have  you  gone  over  to  the  enemy?"  he  queried,  a 
smile  disguising  his  anxiety. 

She  shook  her  head  with  the  air  of  one  who  is  un- 
certain. 

"You  are  very  much  like  him;  but  still  there  is  some- 
thing different,"  she  said,  still  regarding  Smith  at- 
tentively. 

"From  what  I  have  heard,  I  should  hope  there  is  a 
great  deal  that  is  different,"  he  said  drily,  "although 
it  may  smack  of  the  pharisee,"  he  added. 

"But  is  it  possible  for  two  men  to  be  so  much  alike 
as — "  She  paused. 

"You  remember  Adolf  Beck,"  said  Smith.  "He  was 
twice  convicted  of  another  man's  crime,  and  that  man 
a  criminal  whose  every  physical  peculiarity  was  chroni- 
cled at  Scotland  Yard  under  the  Bertillon  System. 
There  have  been  other  cases  just  as  remarkable,"  he 
added. 

She  nodded  absently,  as  if  pondering  something  that 
puzzled  her. 

"Well,"  she  said  at  length.  "I  suppose  those  who 
live  longest  will  see  most,  as  my  old  grandmother  used 
to  say.  In  the  meantime,  it's  ten  o'clock,  and  we  are 
early-to-bed  folk."  Again  there  was  that  fluttering  at 
the  corners  of  her  mouth  that  did  duty  for  a  smile. 

With  a  feeling  of  disappointment  he  was  unable  to 
account  for,  Smith  rose  and  followed  her  into  the  hall. 

"Even  if  we  agree  that  you  are  not  Alfred  Warren," 
she  said  as  she  struck  a  match  and  proceeded  to  light 
the  candles  on  the  hall-table,  "there  remains  another 
problem  to  be  solved." 


MISS  LIPSCOMBE  DECIDES  ON  NEUTRALITY      137 

"Another!"  he  cried,  startled  in  spite  of  himself. 
"Surely  this  is  enough  to  be  going  on  with?"  he  added, 
with  a  whimsical  smile. 

"If  you  are  not  Alfred  Warren,"  she  continued 
gravely,  looking  up  and  fixing  him  with  her  keen  grey 
eyes,  "what  sort  of  a  man  is  James  Smith?" 

He  had  felt  all  along  that  she  did  not  regard  him  as 
Alfred  Warren;  but  her  disconcerting  question  merely 
shifted  the  centre  of  responsibility.  It  was  no  longer 
a  question  of  proving  to  her  that  he  was  not  Alfred 
Warren;  but  of  justifying  James  Smith,  and  of  the  two 
the  newer  problem  seemed  the  more  difficult. 

"In  any  case  you  can't  do  any  harm  to  Alfred  War- 
ren's memory,"  she  remarked  drily,  as  she  handed  him 
his  candlestick.  "In  all  probability  you  will  sweeten 
it,"  and  with  that  she  turned  and  preceded  him  up- 
stairs. 

"Good  night!"  she  said,  at  the  top  of  the  stairs,  as 
she  extended  her  hand.  "You'll  find  me  a  blunt  old 
woman,  who  speaks  her  thoughts,"  she  added.  This 
time  there  was  no  doubt  about  the  fluttering  at  the  cor- 
ners of  her  mouth. 

That  night  as  he  sat  smoking  at  his  bedroom-win- 
dow, Smith  found  his  thoughts  revolving  round  Miss 
Lipscombe's  remark  about  sweetening  the  memory  of 
the  absent  Alfred  Warren. 

What  if  he  had  done  his  bit?  Hundreds  of  failures 
had  made  good  "out  there."  Strange  stories  had  been 
told  in  the  trenches.  He  recalled  that  of  a  man  in  his 
own  company,  who  had  been  shot  whilst  bringing  in  a 
wounded  comrade  from  "no  man's  land."  As  he  lay 
dying,  he  had  confessed  to  the  padre  to  having  mur- 
dered a  girl.  He  had  done  it  in  a  fit  of  mad  jealousy; 


138        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

yet  no  one  had  shrunk  from  him,  least  of  all  the  padre. 
On  the  contrary  he  had  comforted  the  poor  fellow 
with  the  assurance  that  he  had  expiated  his  crime  by 
giving  up  his  own  life  for  another. 

In  any  case  there  could  be  no  harm  done  to  Alfred 
Warren  if  he  stayed  on,  at  least  for  a  time.  It  might 
"sweeten  his  memory,"  as  Miss  Lipscombe  had  sug- 
gested. Was  the  remark  intended  as  a  hint? 

What  would  be  Marjorie's  view?  he  wondered. 
Would  she  be  sympathetic,  or  just  coldly  indifferent? 
Somehow  or  other  her  scarcely  veiled  antagonism  had 
set  him  thinking.  What  had  he  done  outside  his  war 
service?  There  had  been  precious  little  that  would 
come  under  the  heading  of  usefulness. 

The  world  was  not  exactly  the  better  for  a  century 
made  at  Lord's,  or  a  winning  try  scored  just  on  time 
at  Queen's  Club;  nor  did  the  fact  of  being  a  good  shot 
with  a  gun,  the  wrong  sort  of  gun,  make  for  the  better- 
ment of  mankind. 

St.  George  had  not  slain  the  dragon  with  a  double- 
barrelled  ejector  sporting-rifle,  with  luncheon  and  the 
ladies  at  one-thirty  and  dinner  at  eight;  Washington 
had  not  freed  America  in  football  boots;  Garibaldi 
would  most  likely  have  proved  the  veriest  rabbit  in  the 
cricket-field;  whilst  Cromwell,  in  all  probability,  could 
no  more  cast  a  fly  than  stroke  an  eight. 

Why  had  he  never  thought  of  all  this  before?  Why 
had  he  just  accepted  things,  just  as  his  uncle  had  ac- 
cepted Peters'  shaven  upper  lip,  and  flown  into  a  passion 
when  it  vanished  beneath  a  cascade  of  auburn  hair? 

It  was  all  very  puzzling.  War  was  certainly  the  very 
devil  for  shifting  values  and  destroying  age-old  ideals. 


MISS  LIPSCOMBE  DECIDES  ON  NEUTRALITY      139 

The  world  seemed  to  him  to  have  become  one  almighty 
Why? 

It  was  so  easy  for  the  King  Alfreds,  the  Joan  of 
Arcs  and  the  Luthers  of  the  world.  Their  destinies 
seemed  obvious  and  pre-ordained;  but  for  the  rest, 
well,  it  was  a  bit  difficult. 

Stevenson  had  said  that  life  might  be  interpreted 
as  having  a  good  time  and  enriching  the  world  with  a 
few  good  things.  It  was  not  a  bad  philosophy;  better 
than  hunting  for  motes  in  another  fellow's  eye.  There 
was  the  vicar,  for  instance.  He  would  sweeten  the 
memory  of  the  devil  himself  and,  what  was  more,  he 
appeared  to  do  it  without  effort. 

It  was  nearly  one  o'clock  when  he  finally  decided 
to  lay  the  problems  and  his  head  upon  the  white  pillow 
that  looked  so  inviting;  still,  it  really  was  the  very 
devil. 


CHAPTER  X 

SMITH  ACQUIRES  REACH-ME-DOWNS 


IN  Little  Bilstead,  life  passed  decorously  from  sun- 
rise  to   sundown   and   from  sundown   to   sunrise. 
Few  events  disturbed  the  studied  calm  of  its  atmos- 
phere.    A  new  hat  or  an  indiscretion  on  the  part  of 
a  domestic  were  equally  topics  of  absorbing  interest. 
Nothing  ever  happened,  that  is  nothing  had  happened 
for  the  last  seven  years. 

Sometimes,  Miss  Small,  who  eked  out  an  insignifi- 
cant pension  by  doing  dressmaking,  would  sigh  for  the 
days  when  the  village  had  seethed  with  scandal.  It 
lent  an  added  spice  to  existence.  The  morning  knew 
not  what  the  evening  would  bring  forth. 

During  the  next  forty-eight  hours  Smith  learned 
something  of  the  dramatic  excitements  with  which  life 
in  Little  Bilstead  had  been  fraught  some  six  years  pre- 
viously. The  village  then  had  seethed  with  scandal, 
and  the  people  went  about  on  the  tiptoe  of  excitement. 

John  Postle,  the  village  constable,  would  rub  the 
right-hand  side  of  his  chin  with  his  thumb  and  say, 
"Well,  bor,  what  d'you  think  on  it?"  and  there  would 
be  a  shaking  of  heads  and  probably  an  "I'll  be  danged" 
or  two  from  his  hearers. 

In  the  sanded  bar  of  The  Pigeons,  there  had  been 
great  discussions,  and  the  wildness  of  the  rumours  that 
were  retailed  would  have  appalled  any  but  the  most 

140 


SMITH  ACQUIRES  REACH-ME-DOWNS        141 

omnivorous  scandal-monger.  At  the  conclusion  of 
some  particularly  piquant  narration,  there  would  be  a 
shuffling  of  feet,  a  general  murmuring  of  voices  and  a 
draining  of  earthenware  mugs. 

It  appeared  that  Alfred  Warren  had  been,  not  only 
of  a  convivial  turn  of  mind,  but  intensely  gregarious. 
He  had  attracted  to  himself  some  strange  companions, 
including  most  of  the  undesirables,  male  and  female, 
for  miles  around.  No  one  had  ever  quite  known  when 
some  influx  of  disreputables  would  turn  Little  Bilstead 
topsy-turvy,  cause  the  villagers  to  lock  their  doors  at 
night,  and  sometimes  even  pile  furniture  against  them. 

At  first  The  Pigeons  had  been  used  as  a  sort  of 
headquarters  by  the  revellers ;  but  a  little  straight  talk- 
ing from  the  chairman  at  the  licensing  sessions  had 
caused  Host  Nudd  some  anxiety  as  to  the  renewal  of 
his  license,  and  his  caution  had  grievously  constricted 
the  flow  of  liquor.  After  that  Tom  Simmons  had  be- 
come the  source  from  which  supplies  were  obtained, 
and  many  a  case  had  been  delivered  at  his  cottage  by 
the  local  carrier,  accompanied  by  a  knowing  wink. 
This  accounted  for  his  reference  to  the  whisky. 

In  those  days  Simmons  was  rarely,  if  ever,  quite 
sober;  but  he  was  too  cunning  to  neglect  his  work  upon 
the  roads — that  would  have  meant  disaster;  besides, 
he  had  a  head  like  a  hunting-squire. 

The  telling  of  the  escapades  of  Alfred  Warren 
seemed  to  have  lost  nothing  with  the  passage  of  years. 
Many  of  the  stories  about  him  were  clearly  apocryphal; 
but  even  allowing  a  wide  margin  for  imagination,  there 
was  enough  left  over  to  establish  the  fact  that,  what- 
ever life  in  Little  Bilstead  had  been  during  the  resi- 
dence of  Alfred  Warren,  it  had  not  lacked  incident. 


142        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

There  were  stories  of  strange  midnight  orgies,  sug- 
gestive of  chapters  from  the  lives  of  film  stars  in  Los 
Angeles,  and  there  were  pranks  and  "rags,"  such  as 
the  screwing-up  of  the  village  constable's  doors  and 
windows,  followed  by  an  avalanche  of  lighted  crackers 
down  his  chimney;  or  the  serenading  of  the  Miss  Jells 
with  instruments  composed  of  household  utensils  and 
motor  hooters,  which  had  lasted  the  greater  part  of 
one  summer  night,  to  the  accompaniment  of  much 
raucous  song. 

Colonel  Enderby's  open  antagonism  Smith  traced  to 
an  episode  of  a  few  months  before  Alfred  Warren  had 
disappeared  from  Little  Bilstead.  The  gallant  colonel 
lived  alone,  a  woman  from  the  village  "doing"  for  him 
during  the  day.  One  morning  he  had  discovered  a 
clothes-line  stretched  across  his  front  garden,  in  full 
view  of  the  main  road,  from  which  dainty  and  intimate 
feminine  garments  sported  in  the  breeze. 

As  Colonel  Enderby  was  a  late  riser,  the  whole  of 
Little  Bilstead  made  the  discovery  before  he  had  even 
awakened.  Furthermore,  he  had  been  forced  to  re- 
move the  offending  garments  himself,  which  he  did  by 
cutting  down  the  line,  Mrs.  Warnes  not  being  at  her 
post  at  the  customary  hour. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  had  been,  seen,  and  retired, 
horrified  at  the  spectacle  presented  by  the  colonel's 
front  garden.  Mrs.  Warnes  was  a  woman  who  hung 
her  marriage  lines  in  a  black  Oxford  frame  over  the 
parlour  mantelpiece. 

On  another  occasion,  Alfred  Warren,  and  half  a 
dozen  of  his  companions,  had  doped  Tom  Bassing- 
thwaighte,  the  postman,  as  he  was  starting  out  upon 
his  morning  round.  Then  they  had  proceeded  to  steam 


SMITH  ACQUIRES  REACH-ME-DOWNS        143 

open  the  letters  and  insert  picture  post-cards  of  a  char- 
acter never  permitted  to  circulate  in  this  country. 

It  had  taken  Little  Bilstead  months  to  recover  from 
this  outrage,  and  only  lack  of  definite  proof  had  saved 
the  perpetrators  from  prosecution. 

Beneath  all  these  stories,  there  was  an  undercurrent 
of  suggestive  rumour,  which  never  found  expression  in 
actual  words.  It  was  this  which  convinced  Smith  that 
Alfred  Warren  was  what  the  village  of  Little  Bilstead 
said  he  was,  "a  rare  wrong  un." 

But  all  that  was  long  ago,  and  for  the  past  seven 
years  Little  Bilstead  had  made  its  own  drama,  just  as, 
for  the  most  part,  it  made  its  own  clothes.  Realisa- 
tion of  its  loss  had  come  slowly  to  Little  Bilstead.  The 
sight  of  Bob  Thirkettle  glooming  along  the  highways, 
a  gun  under  his  arm  and  a  scowl  on  his  lowering  brow, 
had  contained  a  suggestion  that  at  any  time  Drama 
might  return,  arm-in-arm  with  Tragedy. 

That  was  a  time  when  Little  Bilstead  scarcely  dared 
to  breathe. 

Then  there  had  come  the  time  when  Bob  Thirkettle 
had  left  his  gun  at  home,  and  the  village  had  sighed 
its  resignation  and  possibly  its  regrets;  for  even  an 
English  village  has  its  proper  pride,  and  appreciates 
to  the  full  the  distinction  of  being  referred  to  in  the 
London  papers  as  the  centre  of  a  great  crime. 

Now  the  black  sheep  was  back  again,  and  the  old 
times  would  return.  There  would  be  no  lack  of  excite- 
ment, Little  Bilstead  decided,  as  soon  as  things  got 
going.  It  wanted  only  Bob  Thirkettle  and  then — 

In  the  meantime  the  black  sheep  was  idling  away 
the  summer  hours.  It  was  all  very  comfortable,  and 
he  was  quite  content;  but  for  the  fact  of  Marjorie's 


THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

frank  avoidance  of  him.  However,  there  was  no  oint- 
ment without  its  accompanying  fly — perhaps  that  was 
where  flies  went  in  the — how  absurd! 

He  realised  that  the  vicar  was  striving  to  carry  out 
his  sister's  orders,  and  discharge  fittingly  his  duties  as 
host.  He  would  propose  some  undertaking,  such  as  a 
visit  to  the  church,  or  the  exploration  of  the  vegetable- 
garden  and,  as  a  preparation,  go  in  search  of  his  pipe. 
That  was  the  last  Smith  would  see  of  him  until  he  was 
routed  out  from  his  study  for  the  next  meal. 

Still,  life  at  the  vicarage  was  very  pleasant,  and 
Janet  generally  had  some  piquant  item  of  gossip  to  re- 
tail when  he  grew  drowsy  with  the  drone  of  the  bees, 
or  the  cooing  of  the  doves. 

In  all  probability  it  was  only  a  lull  before  the  storm, 
he  told  himself. 

II 

Whilst  Little  Bilstead  was  busy  speculating  as  to  the 
nature  of  the  entertainment  that  the  cricket-match  was 
likely  to  produce,  Smith  was  busy  considering  the  im- 
portant question  of  suitable  clothing  in  which  to  appear 
as  one  of  the  protagonists. 

An  appeal  to  Willis,  followed  by  a  thorough  and 
systematic  examination  of  Alfred  Warren's  wardrobe, 
failed  to  produce  anything  in  the  way  of  cricketing 
gear.  Smith  did  not  quite  fancy  playing  in  a  tweed 
suit.  His  kit-bag  had  been  in  the  guard's  van,  and  he 
had  forgotten  it.  Apparently  the  guard  had  done  the 
same.  Somewhere  on  the  Great  Eastern  Railway  sys- 
tem were  his  flannels  and  buckskin  boots;  but  just 
where  he  was  not  in  a  position  to  say.  In  any  case, 
there  was  no  time  to  make  enquiries. 


SMITH  ACQUIRES  REACH-ME-DOWNS        145 

"You  never  liked  cricket,  Mr.  Alfred,"  Willis  ex- 
plained, to  account  for  the  absence  of  appropriate 
clothing.  Willis  seemed  capable  of  defending  every 
shortcoming  of  the  son  and  heir  as  it  presented  itself. 
"It  didn't  agree  with  you,  sir,"  he  added. 

Probably  Lady  Warren  had  not  thought  it  necessary 
to  renew  that  particular  portion  of  her  son's  wardrobe. 

"Well,  anyhow,  I'm  going  to  play,"  said  Smith,  "so 
what's  to  be  done?" 

"Miss  Marjorie's  taking  the  car  into  Norwich  this 
afternoon,"  began  Willis  tentatively.  "Perhaps  you 
could—" 

"Willis,"  said  Smith  gravely,  "there  are  moments 
when  you  reach  Napoleonic  heights  of  inspiration.  If 
Miss  Marjorie  will  run  me  into  Norwich,  I  can  get  fixed 
up  with  reach-me-downs  that  will  probably  be  over 
long  and  too  narrow,  or  too  broad  and  not  long 
enough." 

That  afternoon  Marjorie  drove  Smith  into  Norwich, 
with  Eric  in  the  tonneau,  armed  with  a  good  supply  of 
chocolate,  a  pea-shooter,  a  catapult,  and  ammunition 
sufficient  for  an  extended  offensive. 

The  pea-shooter  was  for  use  upon  the  inhabitants  of 
the  villages  they  passed  through,  whereas  the  catapult 
he  kept  for  the  fauna.  During  the  early  part  of  the 
outward  journey  he  became  confused  in  the  matter  of 
weapons,  and  that  was  in  the  case  of  a  ditcher,  bent 
and  busy,  who  presented  a  target  upon  which  a  pea- 
shooter would  have  been  wasted. 

The  man's  yell  as  he  straightened  himself  caused 
both  Marjorie  and  Smith  to  look  round;  but  all  they 
saw  was  an  innocent  freckled  face  behind  a  bar  of 
chocolate,  whilst  in  the  distance  a  man  was  shaking  his 


146        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

clenched  hand  at  the  disappearing  car,  the  other  hand 
being  engaged  elsewhere. 

Smith  had  offered  to  drive;  but  Marjorie  declined, 
and  he  settled  down  contentedly  to  watch  the  dexterous 
way  in  which  she  handled  the  car.  She  was  careful; 
but  she  lost  no  opportunity  of  picking  up  speed  on  safe 
bits  of  road. 

Smith  ventured  a  few  general  remarks;  but  he  was 
conscious  once  more  of  the  barrier  the  girl  seemed  de- 
termined should  exist  between  them.  She  had  a  reason- 
able excuse  for  not  being  conversational  and,  after  a 
few  unsuccessful  efforts,  Smith  gave  up  the  struggle. 

He  soon,  however,  found  a  new  source  of  interest 
in  the  activities  of  Eric.  By  moving  his  position 
slightly,  he  was  able  to  obtain  a  view  of  the  tonneau. 
Eric's  success  with  the  ditcher  had  caused  him  perma- 
nently to  lay  aside  the  pea-shooter  as  a  weapon  of 
offence,  and  devote  himself  to  the  catapult. 

Kneeling  on  the  back  seat,  he  proceeded  to  let  fly  at 
anything  that  moved.  Smith  could  not  judge  with  what 
effect;  but  in  one  or  two  instances  the  marksmanship 
must  have  been  good,  noticeably  when  a  terrified  pig 
gave  tongue,  its  squeal  rising  clear-cut  above  the  hum 
of  the  car. 

Smith  was  not  surprised  when  later  he  heard  Eric 
endeavouring  to  persuade  Marjorie  to  return  by  an- 
other route,  and  he  earned  Eric's  lifelong  devotion  by 
supporting  the  suggestion.  Smith's  object  was  a  purely 
selfish  one.  He  had  no  desire  to  be  stopped  every  hun- 
dred yards  or  so  by  those  who  had  suffered  from  Eric's 
dexterity  with  the  catapult. 

At  the  Maid's  Head  Hotel  they  parted,  Marjorie  to 
do  her  shopping,  Eric  to  replenish  his  supply  of  ammu- 


SMITH  ACQUIRES  REACH-ME-DOWNS        147 

nition,   and  Smith   to   search    for   boots   and   flannel 
trousers. 

Marjorie  had  left  no  doubt  as  to  her  intentions  when 
she  informed  him  that  they  would  be  starting  back  at 
five  o'clock,  so  as  to  be  home  well  in  time  for  dinner. 
With  a  final  word  of  warning  to  Eric,  who  had  point- 
blank  refused  to  accompany  her,  she  walked  out  of  the 
hotel,  leaving  Smith  and  Eric  to  follow. 

For  reasons  best  known  to  himself,  Eric  apparently 
desired  to  be  alone;  but  he  could  not  quite  discover 
the  right  way  to  "shake  off"  Smith,  as  he  would  have 
expressed  it.  He  solved  the  problem  by  suddenly  dart- 
ing down  a  side-street,  with  an  exclamation  to  the  effect 
that  "there's  a  fellow  I  know,"  and  Smith  was  per- 
mitted to  pursue  his  way  alone. 

Having  secured  flannels  that  seemed  close  enough  a 
fit  to  stay  on  him,  and  at  the  same  time  not  too  close  a 
fit  to  part  where  they  should  not  part,  Smith  next  pro- 
ceeded to  search  for  a  pair  of  boots.  These  secured 
and  ordered  to  be  sent  to  the  Maid's  Head,  he  decided 
to  take  a  stroll  through  the  city  until  it  was  time  to 
keep  the  rendezvous  at  the  hotel. 

"If  it  isn't  little  Alfie  Warren!" 

He  turned  swiftly  on  his  heel  from  an  examination 
of  a  fine  old  mezzotint  of  Sir  Robert  Peel,  to  find  him- 
self gazing  into  a  pair  of  bold  dark  eyes  above  which 
was  perched  a  large  straw  hat  laden  with  artificial 
flowers  and  fruit,  more  suggestive  of  a  harvest-festival 
than  a  head-covering. 

"I  thought  it  was  you,"  said  the  owner  of  the  eyes. 
"Fancy  meeting  you  after  all  these  years." 

That  one  swift  look  had  thoroughly  unnerved  Smith. 
The  green  jumper  over  a  short  tweed  skirt  of  a  loud 


148        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

pattern,  the  coarse  features  heavily  smothered  with 
powder,  the  red  lips  and,  above  all,  the  dead  gold  hair, 
dark  at  the  roots,  caused  him  involuntarily  to  shudder. 

"I'm  afraid  you  have  made  a  mistake,"  he  said 
coldly,  as  he  formally  lifted  his  hat.  "My  name  is  not 
Warren." 

"Oh !  ring  off !"  she  cried  with  a  laugh.  "I  should 
have  known  you  anywhere.  You  look  as  if  you've  been 
on  the  water-wagon,  though.  I  heard  you  were  back." 

"I  assure  you,"  said  Smith  quietly,  "that  you  have 
made  a  mistake.  My  name  is  not  Alfred  Warren;  but 
James  Smith." 

"Alias  Bill  Jones,  or  Henry  Robinson."  She  laughed 
shrilly,  and  several  passers-by  looked  curiously  at  the 
pair. 

He  made  a  movement  to  pass  on;  but  the  woman 
suddenly  thrust  her  arm  through  his. 

"Come  and  let  us  have  a  barley-water,  Alfie.  I'm  as 
dry  as  a  Yankee." 

For  a  moment  he  hesitated,  gazing  about  him  as  if 
meditating  flight. 

"I — "  he  began,  then  he  stopped  suddenly.  There, 
standing  a  few  yards  away,  was  Marjorie.  Appar- 
ently she  had  just  come  out  of  a  shop.  For  the  space 
of  a  second  her  eyes  met  his,  then  she  turned  and  walked 
off  in  the  opposite  direction,  with  a  studied  indifference 
that  maddened  him. 

"I  assure  you  that  you  are  mistaken,"  he  said,  in  a 
voice  loud  enough,  he  hoped,  for  Marjorie  to  hear. 
Turning  on  his  heel,  he  walked  quickly  in  the  opposite 
direction  from  that  she  had  taken. 

"Hoity-toity!"    cried    the    woman.      "Getting    too 


SMITH  ACQUIRES  REACH-ME-DOWNS        149 

proud  to  know  our  old  pals,  are  we.  You've  got  a  fat 
lot  to  be  proud  of,  Alfie  Warren." 

Smith's  instinct  was  to  take  to  his  heels  and  run.  He 
was  conscious  of  the  heads  turned  in  his  direction, 
whilst  in  his  heart  was  a  great  terror  lest  the  woman 
should  pursue  him. 

Never  had  Alfred  Warren  been  so  thoroughly  and 
comprehensively  cursed  in  the  whole  of  his  existence 
as  he  was  during  the  next  few  minutes. 

For  half-an-hour  Smith  wandered  about  the  city,  and 
at  a  pace  that  drew  to  him  many  curious  glances.  He 
was  brought  back  to  realities  again  by  Eric  hailing  him 
from  the  other  side  of  the  road. 

"Got  your  bags?"  he  enquired  when  half-way  across. 

"Bags,"  repeated  Smith  vaguely,  "er — yes,  of 
course,"  he  added  a  moment  later,  realising  the  purport 
of  the  question.  "Quite  all  right,  thanks." 

For  a  moment  all  thought  of  cricket  had  vanished 
from  his  mind.  He  could  remember  only  the  look 
Marjorie  had  directed  towards  him. 

"Damn!"  he  muttered. 

"Eh?"    Eric  looked  at  him  enquiringly. 

"I  remarked  'damn,'  "  said  Smith  quietly. 

"Why?"  queried  the  boy. 

"I  was  wondering  what  I  am  going  to  say  when  we 
pass  that  ditcher  on  the  way  home,  and  also  the  owner 
of  the  pig,"  whereat  Eric's  face  flamed,  and  a  moment 
later  he  disappeared,  without  even  the  intimation  that 
he  had  seen  a  fellow  he  knew. 

With  an  hour  still  to  spare,  Smith  was  struck  with 
the  idea  of  calling  upon  Lady  Warren's  solicitor. 
Recognition  by  Alfred  Warren's  erstwhile  friends 


150  THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

seemed  likely  to  prove  not  the  least  embarrassing  fea- 
ture of  the  adventure,  and  this  had  inspired  him  to  en- 
quire of  Willis  the  name  and  address  of  the  family 
lawyer.  The  process  of  psychologising  the  real  Alfred 
was  proving  both  swift  and  startling,  and  it  might  be 
advisable  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  Lady  Warren's 
solicitor  as  a  measure  of  precaution.  At  least  he  could 
be  depended  upon  to  approach  the  problem  without 
emotion. 


W 


CHAPTER  XI 

MR.  TASSELL  IS  SURPRISED 


HEN  Smith  pushed  open  the  dingy,  ground- 
glass  door  of  No.  1 20  Tombland,  on  which  in 
black  letters  appeared  the  legend 

ENQUIRIES. 
TASSELL,  ELAINE  &  PORT. 

SOLICITORS. 

he  was  quite  prepared  to  be  hailed  once  more  as  a  re- 
turned prodigal. 

It  was  with  relief  that  he  saw  behind  a  small  counter 
a  dark-haired  youth,  whose  dislike  of  water  was  mani- 
fested by  a  dark  rim  that  began  above  his  collar  and 
rose  gradually  on  either  side,  until  it  finally  disappeared 
behind  his  large  red  ears. 

"Is  Mr.  Tassell  in?"  Smith  enquired. 

"What  name,  sir?"  asked  the  lad,  declining  to  com- 
mit himself. 

"Say  a  gentleman  wishes  to  see  him  on  important 

business." 

"Yes,  sir.  What  name?"  repeated  the  youth,  with- 
out show  of  emotion. 

"Give  him  that  message,  please,"  said  Smith,  realis- 
ing for  the  first  time  in  his  life  the  importance  of  labels 
as  applied  to  human  beings. 

For  a  moment  the  lad  stood  gazing  at  him  out  of  a 

151 


152        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

pair  of  pink-rimmed  eyes,  then,  reluctantly  lifting  the 
flap  of  the  counter,  he  motioned  Smith  to  pass  through. 
A  moment  later  he  threw  open  a  door  on  which  ap- 
peared in  white  letters  the  words  "Waiting-Room." 

Without  requesting  the  caller  to  take  a  seat,  the  lad 
closed  the  door,  leaving  Smith  to  listen  to  the  tick-tack 
of  the  clock,  or,  as  an  alternative,  to  gaze  at  a  much 
foxed  mezzotint  of  Lord  Ellenborough. 

He  was  speculating  as  to  what  would  be  the  psycho- 
logical effect  upon  his  clients  of  a  bowl  of  roses  upon  a 
lawyer's  waiting-room  table,  when  the  door  opened, 
and  the  lad  reappeared. 

"Mr.  Tassell  can't  see  you,  sir,  unless  you  send  in 
your  name,"  he  said,  with  the  air  of  one  who  entirely 
concurs  with  the  terms  of  an  ultimatum. 

"Then  tell  Mr.  Tassell,  with  my  compliments,"  said 
Smith,  "that  I'll  wait  here  until  he  can  see  me.  By  the 
way,  if  you've  got  any  lighter  reading  than  a  treatise 
on  evidence,  you  might  let  me  have  it." 

The  lad  gazed  up  at  Smith,  a  new  respect  in  his  eyes. 
It  was  not  usual  for  the  decrees  of  the  senior  partner 
to  be  flouted  in  this  way  and,  with  the  true  instinct  of 
the  Briton,  he  determined  that  Smith  must  be  some- 
body of  importance. 

"You  might  add  that  I  come  from  one  of  Mr. 
Tassell's  oldest  clients,"  added  Smith,  who  had  no 
desire  to  spend  longer  than  was  absolutely  necessary  in 
the  uninspiring  atmosphere  of  the  lawyer's  waiting- 
room. 

Two  minutes  later  the  lad  returned  with  a  request 
that  Smith  would  follow  him.  Proceeding  along  a  cor- 
ridor, the  boy  opened  another  ground-glass  door,  on 
which  it  was  announced  that  Mr.  Tassell  was  "Pri- 
vate." 


MR.  TASSELL  IS  SURPRISED  153 

"The  gentleman,  sir,"  said  the  lad. 

Thus  labelled,  Smith  stepped  into  the  room,  and  the 
door  closed  behind  him.  He  was  conscious  of  an  ex- 
panse of  bald  head  surrounded  on  three  sides  by  a 
fringe  of  grey  hair.  A  moment  later  a  movement  of 
the  expanse  of  baldness  brought  into  his  range  of  vision 
a  pair  of  keen,  grey  eyes  looking  at  him  through  gold- 
rimmed  spectacles.  For  a  second  there  was  sternness 
in  those  eyes,  then  a  look  of  bewilderment  and  surprise, 
followed  by  a  quick  movement  backward  of  the  revolv- 
ing chair,  as  Mr.  Tassell  struggled  to  his  feet. 

"Mr.  Warren!"  he  cried. 

Then  he  plumped  down  into  the  chair  again,  and  sat 
looking  at  Smith  as  if  he  had  been  an  apparition,  his 
hands  gripping  the  arms  of  his  chair  until  the  knuckles 
stood  out  hard  and  white  from  the  surrounding  yellow- 
ness. 

With  an  effort  he  appeared  to  regain  control  of  him- 
self and  motioned  Smith  to  a  chair. 

Mr.  Tassell  seemed  to  have  been  conceived  in  neu- 
tral tints,  the  prevailing  shade  being  a  soft  yellow. 
There  was  nowhere  about  him  any  suggestion  of  blood. 
The  lips  of  his  large  mouth  were  grey,  his  voice  woolly, 
and  his  general  appearance  that  of  a  man  who  had 
stepped  out  of  a  picture  some  forty  or  fifty  years 
old. 

"I  was  afraid  you  would,"  said  Smith  wearily,  as  he 
dropped  into  the  chair  indicated.  "Everybody  seems 
to  crumple  the  moment  I  appear,  at  least  in  this 
county,"  he  added.  "It's  positively  monotonous." 

Mr.  Tassell  swallowed  noisily,  his  Adam's  apple 
leaping  upwards  and  then  reappearing  again  with 
startling  suddenness. 

In  as  few  words  as  possible  Smith  proceeded  to  re- 


154        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

late  the  events  that  led  up  to  his  appearance  in  Mr. 
Tassell's  office. 

By  the  time  he  had  finished,  Mr.  Tassell  had  entirely 
recovered  his  self-possession,  mainly  by  the  process  of 
polishing  and  re-polishing  his  spectacles,  reinforced  by 
several  mighty  swallows.  Three  times  he  took  them 
off,  and  three  times  he  replaced  them,  first  subjecting 
the  lenses  to  a  vigorous  rubbing  with  a  maroon  silk 
pocket-handkerchief. 

As  he  did  so  he  gazed  across  at  Smith,  a  strange  and 
inscrutable  look  in  his  eyes.  Then,  as  if  suddenly 
realising  that  the  interview  was  of  a  professional  na- 
ture, he  replaced  his  spectacles,  pursed  his  lips,  leaned 
back  in  his  chair  and,  placing  the  points  of  his  fingers 
together,  proceeded  to  regard  the  tips  as  if  they  held 
the  solution  of  the  riddle  that  Smith  had  propounded. 

"So  you  see  I  am  not  Alfred  Warren,"  Smith  con- 
cluded; "but  just  plain  James  Smith,  one  of  the  tens  of 
thousands  of  Smiths  who  avoid  confusion  with  other 
Smiths  by  sheer  personality." 

"I  understand,"  said  Mr.  Tassell  in  his  best  county- 
court  manner,  "that  you  climbed  the  gates  of  The 
Grange." 

"I  did." 

"May  I  ask  why?" 

"Because  I  was  wet." 

Mr.  Tassell  removed  his  glasses  and  became  ab- 
sorbed in  polishing  them. 

"I  always  climb  gates  when  I'm  wet." 

Mr.  Tassell  looked  up,  still  continuing  to  polish  his 
glasses;  but  Smith's  face  was  as  grave  as  that  of  a 
judge. 

"You  knew  the  gates  were  there?"  queried  Mr. 
Tassell. 


MR.  TASSELL  IS  SURPRISED  155 

"Well,  I  suspected  it,"  Smith  admitted,  still  with 
the  utmost  gravity.  "When  a  thing  has  almost  torn 
off  your  trousers,  you  do,"  he  added  drily.  "Even 
Einstein  could  not  avoid  it." 

"The  night  was  very  dark?" 

"Intensely." 

"Still  you  saw  the  gates  of  The  Grange?"  persisted 
Mr.  Tassell,  as  he  reassumed  his  glasses. 

"I  ran  into  them." 

"And  climbed  them?" 

"With  infinite  difficulty." 

"And  yet  you  say  you  are  not  Mr.  Alfred  Warren; 
but  Mr.  James  Smith?"  Mr.  Tassell  raised  his  eyes 
from  his  finger-tips,  and  looked  at  his  visitor  over  the 
top  of  his  spectacles.  There  was  something  of  stern- 
ness in  his  gaze. 

"I  did  and  I  am,"  said  Smith  evenly. 

Mr.  Tassell  nodded  gravely,  as  if  the  answer  in  no 
way  surprised  him.  He  returned  to  a  minute  examina- 
tion of  his  finger-tips,  then,  raising  his  eyes  again,  he 
proceeded  once  more  to  regard  Smith  over  the  top  of 
his  spectacles. 

"The  likeness  is  certainly  remarkable,"  he  said,  a 
little  drily,  Smith  thought.  After  another  pause,  he 
continued.  "I  take  it  that  you  are  not  prepared  to 
acquaint  me  with  your  actual  identity?  In  the  strictest 
confidence,  of  course,"  he  added. 

"I  have  already  done  so,"  was  the  smiling  rejoinder. 
"I  am  James  Smith." 

"Of?"  interrogated  the  lawyer. 

"Of  nowhere  in  particular." 

"Hmmmmmmmmmm,"  murmured  Mr.  Tassell,  as 
he  sucked  in  his  lips.  "I  would  advise,"  he  continued, 
with  great  deliberation,  "that  you  produce  evidence 


156        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

of — er — er — an  uncontrovertible  nature  that  will — er 
— establish  definitely  your  identity." 

"In  that  I  entirely  agree,"  said  Smith  quietly,  "only 
it  happens  to  be  the  one  thing  that  I  am  not  prepared 
to  do." 

"Why?"    The  interrogation  came  like  a  pistol-shot. 

"Family  reasons,"  was  the  quiet  rejoinder. 

"You  say  that  the  servants  have  identified  you  as 
well?"  he  queried. 

"They  have,"  said  Smith,  "I  might  even  add  with 
enthusiasm." 

Mr.  Tassell  proceeded  to  make  further  mysterious 
noises  somewhere  behind  the  region  of  his  Adam's 
apple,  which  bobbed  about  like  an  egg-shell  on  the 
water-jet  of  a  shooting-gallery. 

"You  have  insisted  that  they  are  mistaken?"  he 
queried. 

"My  dear  sir,"  said  Smith  patiently,  "I  might  swear 
it  on  the  Apocrypha  or  the  Koran;  they  wouldn't  be- 
lieve me." 

"You  might  disappear,"  said  Mr.  Tassell  tenta- 
tively. 

"I  might,"  he  agreed. 

"But  you  have  decided  not  to?" 

"I  have." 

With  pursed-up  lips  and  a  roving  Adam's  apple, 
Mr.  Tassell  proceeded  to  grapple  with  this  new  aspect 
of  the  situation. 

"You  realise,  of  course,  there  may  be  difficulties, 
even  embarrassments?"  he  said. 

"Great  Gulliver!"  cried  Smith,  "there  are  scores  of 
them  in  Little  Bilstead,  and  no  doubt  others  will  pre- 
sent themselves  with  the  passage  of  time.  One  got  me 


MR.  TASSELL  IS  SURPRISED  157 

by  the  arm  in  this  very  city  only  half-an-hour  ago, 
smelling  vilely  of  patchouli,"  and  he  proceeded  to  tell 
of  the  girl  in  the  jumper  and  the  harvest-festival  hat. 

Mr.  Tassell  looked  grave. 

"There  may  even  be  legal  complications,"  he  said, 
without,  however,  raising  his  eyes  from  their  absorbed 
contemplation  of  his  finger-tips.  "There  will  be  legal 
complications,"  he  added. 

"That  is  why  I  came  to  you,"  Smith  stifled  a  yawn. 

"When  you — when  Mr.  Warren,"  Mr.  Tassell  cor- 
rected himself,  "disappeared  seven  years  ago,  there 
were  some  extremely  difficult  matters  requiring  adjust- 
ment." 

"I  gathered  as  much." 

"I  see." 

This  time  there  was  no  mistaking  the  dry  tone  in 
which  the  words  were  uttered,  and  Smith  found  himself 
gazing  into  a  pair  of  keen,  shrewd  eyes  which,  he  de- 
cided, were  not  over-friendly. 

"You  are  a  very  bold  man,  Mr. — er — Smith." 

"You  mean?"  queried  Smith. 

"Had  my  advice  been  sought,  I  should  unhesitatingly 
have  opposed  your — " 

"Being  identified  as  Alfred  Warren,"  suggested 
Smith  quietly. 

Mr.  Tassell's  keen  eyes  once  more  sought  Smith's. 

"I  cannot  help  being  like  this  blighter  Warren,  can 
I  ?  I  know  he  was  a  bit  of  an  outsider — " 

"How?"  again  the  interrogation  came  like  the  click 
of  a  trigger. 

"When  the  family  butler  follows  the  prodigal  about 
with  a  decanter  of  whisky  and  a  syphon,  it  is  not  ex- 
actly indicative  of  previous  pussyfoot  tendencies,  is  it?" 


158        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

"But  that  may  imply  only  weakness,"  said  the 
lawyer.  "You  used  the  term — " 

"Blighter,"  agreed  Smith.  "A  man  doesn't  leave 
home  because  he  takes  whisky-and-soda — very  little 
soda,  by  the  way — at  breakfast." 

"True,"  said  Mr.  Tassell,  once  more  operating  upon 
his  spectacles  with  the  maroon  silk  handkerchief.  "I 
feel  it  my  duty,  Mr.  Warren — " 

"Smith,  please." 

"Mr.  Smith — I  feel  it  my  duty  to  warn  you  that — 
er — certain  matters  were  kept  from  Lady  Warren  six 
years  ago  when  you — er — when  Mr.  Warren  disap- 
peared." 

Mr.  Tassell  cleared  his  throat  with  the  portentous 
solemnity  he  usually  reserved  for  inquests,  and  fixed 
Smith  with  a  keen,  steely  gaze,  as  if  he  would  read  his 
innermost  thoughts. 

"It  certainly  looks  as  if  I'm  in  for  something  excit- 
ing," said  Smith  easily.  "After  all,  when  you  assume 
a  prodigal's  responsibilities,  you  cannot  expect  alto- 
gether to  avoid  the  husks,  and  encounter  only  com- 
placent butlers  in  a  land  flowing  with  whisky  and  soda." 

To  Mr.  Tassell  such  obvious  cheerfulness  appeared 
in  the  light  of  flippancy.  He  had  never  liked  Alfred 
Warren;  now  he  positively  disliked  him.  He  regarded 
it  as  an  insult  to  his  professional  amour-propre  to 
expect  a  lawyer  to  be  taken  in  by  so  obvious  a  subter- 
fuge as  this  pretence  of  being  another  man,  so  that  he 
might  inherit  the  earth  without  reaping  the  whirlwind. 

"I  understand  that  others  in  Little  Bilstead  are  con- 
vinced that  you  are  Mr.  Alfred  Warren?"  said  Mr. 
Tassell.  "May  I  enquire  if  they  are  friendly?" 

"About  as  friendly  as  fowls  are  to  a  fox,"  said  Smith. 


MR.  TASSELL  IS  SURPRISED  159 

There  was  something  about  Mr.  Tassell's  whole  man- 
ner that  irritated  him.  He  seemed  bloodless,  devoid 
of  all  humanity.  "If  I  am  Alfred  Warren,  why  should 
I  want  to  deny  it?"  he  demanded. 

"There  might  be  reasons."  There  was  an  ominous 
note  in  Mr.  Tassell's  woolly  tones. 

"What  reasons?" 

"I  said  there  might  be  reasons,"  said  Mr.  Tassell 
quietly.  Lady  Warren  was  one  of  his  oldest  clients. 

"You  speak  in  parables,"  said  Smith,  "and  this  prod- 
igal-business has  wearied  me  of  the  very  thought  of 
a  parable." 

"Then  I  will  speak  plainly,"  was  the  rejoinder.  "By 
staying  on  at  Little  Bilstead  you  place  yourself  in  very 
grave  danger.  I  fear  I  can  in  no  way  associate  myself 
with  your  action  without  Lady  Warren's  explicit  in- 
structions. I  shall  cable — " 

"If  you  do,  it  will  most  probably  be  murder,"  said 
Smith,  and  he  proceeded  to  explain  what  Dr.  Crane 
had  told  him. 

"Then  I  will  write,"  continued  the  lawyer,  as  Smith 
rose. 

"You're  not  very  helpful,"  he  said  with  a  smile. 
"Good  morning,"  and  he  passed  out  of  the  room. 

In  the  main  office,  he  found  the  pale-faced  lad  with 
the  perpetual  high-water  mark;  but  before  he  had  time 
to  detach  his  attention  from  an  evil-smelling  pear  drop 
and  The  Bandits  of  the  Air,  over  which  he  was  poring, 
Smith  had  passed  out  of  the  door. 

"Rum  un,"  said  the  lad,  as  he  returned  to  The  Ban- 
dits of  the  Air. 

When  he  had  walked  some  hundred  yards  or  so, 
Smith  suddenly  stopped  dead,  much  to  the  embarrass- 


160        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

ment  of  a  little  man  who  was  close  behind  him,  and  who 
had  some  difficulty  in  avoiding  a  collision.  The  full 
significance  of  Mr.  Tassell's  words  had  suddenly 
dawned  upon  him.  The  lawyer  regarded  him  as  the 
real  prodigal,  who,  by  denying  his  identity,  hoped  to 
escape  from  the  consequences  of  some  deed,  or  deeds, 
he  had  committed. 

"Pleasant  for  the  understudy,"  he  muttered,  as  he 
drew  his  cigarette-case  from  his  pocket  and  resumed 
his  walk. 

II 

The  return  journey  was  a  miserable  affair. 

On  arriving  at  the  Maid's  Head,  Smith  had  found 
Marjorie  and  Eric  in  the  midst  of  a  heated  argument, 
which  arose  from  Marjorie's  statement  that  Eric  was 
to  occupy  the  front  seat  beside  her,  so  that  she  could 
see  he  did  not  get  into  mischief.  Eric  point-blank 
refused;  but  a  compromise  was  effected  by  Smith  volun- 
teering to  sit  with  Eric  in  the  tonneau,  ostensibly  to 
look  after  him;  but  he  had  no  illusions  as  to  the  real 
reason. 

For  the  first  half  of  the  journey  this  arrangement 
quite  spoiled  Eric's  enjoyment.  Later  he  discovered 
that  Smith  was  so  absorbed  in  his  own  thoughts  as  to 
be  oblivious  to  what  was  going  on  around  him,  after 
which  big-game  shooting  by  catapult  continued  apace. 

The  memory  of  the  success  he  had  achieved  with  the 
ditcher  inspired  in  Eric  the  hope  that  some  other 
specimen  of  roadside  biped  might  be  found  bent  to  a 
suitable  angle. 

As  the  car  hummed  along,  devouring  the  white  road 
that  ribboned  out  before  it,  Eric  began  to  despair.  So 


MR.  TASSELL  IS  SURPRISED  161 

far  the  "bag"  for  the  homeward  journey  consisted  of 
two  farm  labourers,  caught,  alas!  in  an  upright  posi- 
tion, one  pig,  three  fowls  and  a  dog;  but  the  recollec- 
tion of  the  anguished  yell  of  the  ditcher  still  rang  musi- 
cally in  his  ears. 

He  had  almost  given  up  hope  of  further  sport  that 
day,  when  a  turn  in  the  road  disclosed  the  unbeliev- 
able. There,  just  ahead,  was  a  man,  in  a  suit  of 
checks  as  vivid  as  the  ditcher's  language  had  been,  and 
he  was  bending  over  a  motor-cycle. 

As  the  car  purred  past  him,  the  owner  of  the  checks, 
a  man  of  generous  build,  glanced  up  momentarily,  re- 
vealing a  luxuriant  auburn  moustache;  but  he  was 
obviously  absorbed  in  some  baffling  problem  his  engine 
had  presented  to  him,  for  he  resumed  his  bent  position 
immediately. 

Eric  almost  whooped  with  joy,  the  target  offered  by 
the  ditcher  was  as  nothing  to  that  presented  by  the  man 
in  the  brown-and-white  checks.  It  was  so  good  that 
Eric  double-charged  his  catapult.  Taking  careful  aim 
over  the  back  of  the  car,  he  let  fly.  He  bobbed  down 
instantly;  but  a  shout,  half  yell,  half  roar,  caused  him 
to  raise  an  incautious  head  that  he  might  view  the 
extent  of  the  casualty. 

He  saw  his  victim  dancing  in  the  middle  of  the  road, 
either  with  rage  or  pain,  Eric  could  not  be  sure  which; 
but  from  the  fact  that  the  man's  hands  were  behind 
him,  he  drew  his  own  conclusions. 

As  Eric's  red  head  rose  above  the  hood  of  the  car,  a 
brown-and-white  check  arm  appeared,  terminating  in  a 
fist,  in  the  motion  of  which  there  was  menace.  A 
moment  later,  that  same  fist  was  holding  a  note-book, 
then  another  bend  in  the  road  hid  both  motor-cycle 


162        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

and  owner  from  view  and  Eric,  with  a  sigh  of  content- 
ment and  a  side-glance  at  Smith,  who  sat  moodily 
wrapped  in  his  own  thoughts,  sank  down  on  the  seat 
beside  him.  They  were  getting  too  near  home  for 
further  sport. 

The  significance  of  the  note-book,  Eric  did  not  prop- 
erly realise  until  Little  Bilstead  was  reached,  when  he 
found  that  the  mud  he  had  carefully  plastered  over  two 
of  the  figures  of  the  number-plate  had  been  jolted  off 
during  the  journey. 

"You  been  awake  all  the  time?"  he  queried  of  Smith, 
as  he  stood  for  a  moment  at  the  hall-door  of  The 
Grange. 

"Awake,"  repeated  Smith  vaguely,  "certainly." 

"If  you  hadn't  been,  I  might  have  had  some  fun," 
was  the  rejoinder,  and  he  dashed  away  to  forage  for  a 
meal,  leaving  Smith  wondering. 

That  night  Eric  Stannard  slept  soundly,  conscious 
that  by  his  master  strategy  he  would  be  able  to  confute 
the  evidence  of  the  man  who  owned  the  brown-and- 
white  tweeds  and  the  auburn  moustache  should  he 
present  himself.  The  catapult  itself  he  had  taken  the 
precaution  of  burying.  In  all  great  undertakings,  fore- 
sight ensures  both  the  success  of  the  operation  and 
immunity  from  the  consequences. 


CHAPTER  XII 

LITTLE  BILSTEAD  GOES  TO  CHURCH 

NEVER  within  the  memory  of  the  oldest  inhabi- 
tant had  Little  Bilstead  shown  itself  so  devout 
as  on  the  Sunday  morning  following  the  return 
of  Mist'  Alfred.  It  had  awakened  with  a  delightful 
feeling  of  expectancy.  Instinctively  its  thoughts  gravi- 
tated towards  church,  for  was  not  Mist'  Alfred  stay- 
ing at  the  vicarage? 

The  return  of  "Mist'  Alfred"  had  been  regarded  by 
every  man  and  woman  in  Little  Bilstead  as  a  godsend. 
The  women  gossiped  about  it  for  hour  after  neglectful 
hour,  and  the  men  yearned  for  the  leaden  minutes  to 
pass  until  they  could  foregather  at  The  Pigeons  and  en- 
quire of  one  another,  "Well,  bor,  wot  d'you  think 
on  it?" 

The  prodigal's  denial  that  he  was  the  prodigal,  they 
seemed  to  take  as  a  matter  of  course.  They  knew 
Alfred  Warren  to  be  a  craven,  and  what  more  natural 
than  that  he  should  deny  sowing  the  wind,  lest  the 
whirlwind  engulf  him.  Their  conversation  turned 
largely  upon  what  would  happen  when  Bob  Thirkettle 
should  return,  as  all  knew  he  inevitably  would.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  several  had  taken  the  precaution  of 
writing  to  tell  him  that  Alfred  Warren  was  back.  If 
they  had  keener  eyes  than  Nemesis,  it  was  but  friendly 
to  lend  her  a  helping  hand. 

Never  in  its  history  had  rumour  run  through  Little 

163 


164       THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

Bilstead  as  it  did  during  the  days  that  followed  the 
return  of  its  own  pet  black  sheep. 

The  wildest  stories  were  circulated  and  credited. 
The  prodigal  had  returned  armed  to  the  teeth,  he  had 
aroused  the  inmates  of  The  Grange  by  shooting 
through  the  upper  windows.  He  wore  a  shirt  of  chain- 
mail  under  his  clothes,  in  view  of  a  possible  encounter 
with  Bob  Thirkettle.  He  had  obtained  the  keys  of  the 
wine-cellar  from  Willis  at  the  point  of  the  pistol,  and 
the  old  man.  had  fainted.  He  had  extracted  a  large 
sum  of  money  from  Miss  Marjorie  by  threatening  to 
burn  down  the  house,  whereat  she  had  fainted  and 
Dr.  Crane  had  been  sent  for.  The  doctor  in  turn  had 
forbidden  him  to  leave  the  neighbourhood  under  pen- 
alty of  prosecution  for  threats  of  violence. 

It  was  alleged  that  Alfred  Warren  had  spent  his  first 
night  at  the  vicarage  in  carousing,  drinking  neat  whisky, 
and  shouting  ribald  songs.  Everything  was  credited, 
repeated  with  embellishments  and  additions,  and  duly 
re-credited. 

The  one  thing  that  no  one  thought  of  believing  was 
that  the  alleged  Alfred  Warren  was  not  Alfred  Warren 
at  all.  That  would  have  strangled  the  new-born  Drama 
at  its  birth,  which  to  Little  Bilstead  would  have  been 
emotional  *suicide. 

Every  man,  woman,  and  child  in  the  village  vied 
with  one  another  to  catch  as  many  glimpses  as  possible 
of  the  man  who  had  brought  into  their  lives  a  new  and 
piquant  interest. 

Host  Nudd  of  The  Pigeons  sucked  a  hollow  tooth 
as  he  laboriously  wrote  out  special  orders  to  the  brewer 
and  spirit-merchant.  Not  even  in  the  palmiest  days 
of  Alfred  Warren's  scandalous  doings  had  he  done 


LITTLE  BILSTEAD  GOES  TO  CHURCH       165 

such  business.  Men  from  outlying  villages  tramped 
into  Little  Bilstead  after  the  day's  work  to  hear  the 
latest  news,  and  the  thirst  of  Little  Bilstead  itself  had 
increased  three-fold. 

On  the  night  it  became  known  that  Mist'  Alfred  was 
to  play  in  the  cricket-match,  the  takings  of  The  Pigeons 
had  reached  record  proportions. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  on  it,  together?"  Nudd 
had  enquired  at  an  early  stage  of  the  discussion,  and 
it  was  obvious  from  the  comments  that  ensued  during 
the  next  two  hours  that  no  one  knew  exactly  what  to 
think  of  it. 

Right  up  to  closing-time  they  had  dilated  upon  this 
new  and  mysterious  aspect  of  an  old  scandal. 

"Dick  Marsh'll  give  him  cosh,  that's  a  sure  moral," 
growled  Jack  Bean,  who  knew  that  the  advent  of 
Alfred  Warren  would  lose  him  his  place  in  the  team, 
and  he  seemed  to  have  echoed  the  general  opinion. 
No  one  doubted  that,  in  agreeing  to  play,  Mist'  Alfred 
was  making  a  bid  for  popularity  and  rehabilitation. 

The  possibilities  of  the  cricket-match  were  discussed 
and  re-discussed.  Two  things  were  accepted  as  certain, 
that  the  demon-bowling  of  Marsh,  the  captajn  of  the 
opposing  team,  would  produce  the  tragedy,  whereas 
Mist'  Alfred's  notorious  inexperience  in  field  sports 
would  supply  the  comedy. 

"It'll  be  a  fair  barney,"  cried  one  enthusiast,  as  he 
rose  to  go.  "I'm  going  to  get  there  early,"  he  added, 
as  he  made  towards  the  door  and,  with  a  "fare  you 
well,"  departed. 

On  the  Saturday  night  Little  Bilstead  had  gone  to 
bed  praying  for  a  fine  day  on  the  morrow.  In  spite 
of  the  memory  that  in  the  past  the  fine  old  Early 


166  THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

English  church  at  Little  Bilstead  had  seldom  seen  the 
son  and  heir  of  The  Grange,  it  was  argued  that,  as  the 
vicar's  guest,  he  could  not  very  well  fail  to  put  in  an 
appearance  at  least  once  during  the  day. 

The  lads  of  the  village  arrived  early  and  in  force, 
taking  up  their  position  on  the  top  of  the  grey,  lichen- 
covered  wall  surrounding  the  church.  They  amused 
themselves  by  calling  one  another's  attention  to  the 
outstanding  features,  both  sartorial  and  physical,  of 
all  who  passed,  particularly  the  girls. 

Never  had  Little  Bilstead  manifested  such  devotion 
as  upon  that  summer  Sunday  morning.  Even  old  Jacob 
Gooch,  who  had  not  moved  outside  his  house  for 
eighteen  months,  was  seen  hobbling  along,  supported 
on  one  side  by  a  stick,  and  on  the  other  by  his  son, 
Thomas. 

The  church  itself  was  suggestive  of  a  wedding,  as 
for  the  most  part  the  worshippers  manifested  a  marked 
reluctance  to  enter  until  the  last  moment,  hopeful  of 
catching  a  glimpse  of  Mist'  Alfred  on  his  way  from 
the  vicarage.  They  lined  the  path  that  led  from  the 
porch  to  the  gate,  and  they  collected  in  a  knot  at  the 
gate  itself.  There  was  but  one  topic  of  conversation 
— the  return  of  the  wanderer. 

Those  who  were  old  enough  to  remember  narrated 
to  those  who  were  not  some  of  the  more  hectic  episodes 
in  the  life  of  the  prodigal,  and  the  stories  lost  nothing 
in  the  telling. 

Girls  giggled  and  pretended  to  be  shocked;  but  they 
made  no  effort  to  remove  themselves  out  of  earshot  of 
those  who  were  excavating  in  Alfred  Warren's  past. 

Whilst  Little  Bilstead  was  awaiting  the  arrival  of 
the  man  who  had  brought  so  much  colour  into  its  life, 


LITTLE  BILSTEAD  GOES  TO  CHURCH       167 

Miss  Lipscombe  was  occupied  with  her  usual  Sunday 
morning  efforts  to  counter  the  vicar's  absent-minded- 
ness. 

She  handed  him  the  manuscript  of  his  sermon,  gave 
him  a  handkerchief,  supplied  him  with  a  list  of  hymns, 
lessons,  and  psalms;  in  short  provided  him  with  all 
he  was  likely  to  require.  The  fact  that  he  now  made 
very  few  mistakes  in  the  conduct  of  divine  service 
was  entirely  due  to  his  fear  of  Miss  Lipscombe.  She 
had  read  through  the  sermon  very  carefully,  to  see 
that  there  was  nothing  in  it  suggestive  of  the  return 
of  prodigals. 

The  vicar's  original  idea  had  been  to  preach  a  ser- 
mon upon  the  parable  itself;  but  this  Miss  Lipscombe 
had  resolutely  vetoed.  There  had  been  sufficient  scan- 
dal about  Alfred  Warren  without  adding  to  it  from 
the  pulpit,  had  been  her  view,  and  her  brother  reluc- 
tantly relinquished  the  idea. 

The  vicar  went  on  first,  as  was  his  wont,  followed 
a  few  minutes  later  by  Miss  Lipscombe  and  Smith. 
As  they  were  seen  approaching  the  gate,  a  hush  fell 
upon  the  crowd  of  expectant  villagers. 

As  the  two  passed  between  the  double  line  of  eager 
eyes,  there  was  much  cap-touching  and  nodding  to  Miss 
Lipscombe,  with  an  occasional  "Mornin',  Mist'  Alfred" 
for  the  prodigal. 

As  they  entered  the  church,  the  crowd  followed,  and 
that  morning  many  a  little  Bilsteadian  listened  to  the 
sonorous  English  of  King  Edward  the  Sixth's  Prayer 
Book  for  the  first  time  for  years. 

When  the  vicar  ascended  the  pulpit  steps,  there  was 
a  hush  of  expectancy.  Every  one  thought  that  his 
sermon  would  refer  to  the  return  of  the  wanderer 


168        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

and,  when  he  announced  his  text  as  the  parable  of 
the  widow's  cruse,  it  was  obvious  that  all  were  dis- 
appointed— prodigals  had  nothing  to  do  with  widows' 
cruses,  at  least  they  ought  not  to,  thought  Little 
Bilstead. 

In  spite  of  the  careful  coaching  he  had  undergone 
at  the  hands  of  his  sister,  the  vicar  managed  to  link-up 
the  widow's  cruse  of  plenty  with  the  sinner  that  re- 
penteth,  and  went  on  to  make  a  passing  reference  to 
"the  dear  friend  who  is  back  in  our  midst  after  years 
of  wandering,  to  be  welcomed  as  a  brother  and  loved 
as  a  dutiful  son." 

Smith  felt  every  eye  turned  upon  him,  and  he  could 
see  from  the  lines  of  Miss  Lipscombe's  mouth  that  she 
was  annoyed. 

During  the  offertory,  there  was  a  general  gathering 
together  of  possessions.  As  one  being,  the  congre- 
gation had  made  up  its  mind  to  "slip  out  quietly" 
directly  the  service  was  over,  in  the  hope  of  getting 
another  glimpse  of  Alfred  Warren  as  he  left  the  church. 

The  amen  which  followed  the  vicar's  benediction, 
pronounced  from  the  altar,  might  have  been  an  alarm 
of  fire  from  the  effect  it  had  upon  the  congregation. 

The  "slipping  out  quietly"  degenerated  into  some- 
thing bordering  on  a  stampede.  Each  discovered  that 
his  or  her  own  particular  little  scheme  for  getting  into 
the  churchyard  quickly  was  not  so  original  as  had  been 
thought,  and  a  feeling  of  irritation  seemed  to  spread 
over  the  whole  congregation.  Toes  were  trodden  on, 
elbows  were  thrust  into  sensitive  parts  of  anatomies, 
and  there  was  much  pushing  and  crushing. 

"They  seem  to  be  in  a  hurry  to  get  out,"  murmured 
Smith  to  Miss  Lipscombe. 


LITTLE  BILSTEAD  GOES  TO  CHURCH       169 

"It's  you !"  she  said,  and  there  was  a  grimness  in 
the  words  which  caused  him  to  glance  at  her  curiously. 
"Wait  until  they've  gone,"  and  she  resumed  her  seat. 

That  morning  the  casualties  were  widespread.  Miss 
Jell  had  the  stick  of  her  parasol  broken,  Colonel 
Enderby  had  said  "Damn!"  in  the  centre  aisle,  be- 
cause somebody  had  momentarily  taken  rest  upon  his 
most  sensitive  corn.  Mrs.  Crane  had  her  black-and- 
white  poplin  skirt  "torn  out  of  the  gathers,"  whilst 
Mrs.  Truspitt-Greene  had  swallowed  a  small  acid-drop. 
With  her,  acid-drops  were  indissolubly  associated  with 
religion:  she  always  joined  in  the  singing. 

Miss  Marshall  lost  her  glasses,  and  Mr.  Marshall 
lost  his  temper  because,  in  stooping  to  recover  them, 
he  had  detached  from  a  certain  garment  two  buttons, 
upon  which  much  responsibility  rested. 

A  worse  fate  befell  Mrs.  Spelman.  A  careless  toe 
had  caught  her  on  the  calf  of  her  left  leg,  and  laddered 
her  stocking  in  a  way  that  seemed  almost  indelicate. 
During  most  of  the  way  home,  her  head  was  over  her 
left  shoulder,  as  she  endeavoured  to  obtain  a  glimpse 
of  what  a  wag  who  knew  her  had  once  described  as 
"the  fatted  calf." 

In  the  churchyard,  the  conversation  was  fairly  equally 
divided  between  Alfred  Warren  and  the  ill-manners 
of  those  who  "pushed  and  crushed  to  escape  from 
God's  edifice,"  as  Mrs.  Truspitt-Greene  expressed  it. 
She  was  wondering  if  acid-drops  inadvertently  swal- 
lowed caused  appendicitis. 

As  neither  Miss  Lipscombe  nor  Smith  put  in  an  ap- 
pearance, the  various  units  reluctantly  drifted  away. 
They  had  in  fact  left  by  the  vestry-door  with  the 
vicar,  and  had  taken  another  road  to  the  vicarage. 


170        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

It  was  not,  however,  until  an  hour  later  that  the 
churchyard  was  entirely  clear. 

That  day  many  of  the  inhabitants  of  Little  Bilstead 
had  a  half-cold  Sunday  dinner;  but  that  was  to  them 
as  nothing — they  had  seen  a  real  prodigal,  and  it  was 
worth  it. 

During  the  afternoon  the  memory  of  Alfred  Warren 
was  yet  in  the  minds  of  many.  Locked  in  her  bed- 
room, Miss  Jell,  with  the  aid  of  a  tube  of  seccotine, 
was  endeavouring  to  mend  the  handle  of  her  parasol. 
Mr.  Marshall  was  standing  in  an  awkward  position 
whilst  his  daughter  brought  up  to  their  full  comple- 
ment the  number  of  his  buttons. 

Colonel  Enderby  was  bathing  his  left  foot  in  warm 
water  and  Hindustani  oaths;  whilst  Mrs.  Crane  was 
re-gathering  her  skirt.  And  all  were  looking  forward 
to  the  morrow,  which  they  instinctively  felt  would  be 
productive  of  dramatic  developments. 

The  next  two  days  Smith  spent  in  keen  enjoyment 
of  the  almost  cloistral  quiet  of  life  at  the  vicarage. 

The  vicar  he  found  conversationally  insolvent,  ex- 
cept upon  the  subject  nearest  to  his  heart — the  life  of 
the  Ancients.  Having  no  desire  to  expose  the  holes 
and  patches  in  his  own  classical  toga,  Smith  avoided 
any  effort  to  open  up  an  obvious  avenue  to  the  schol- 
arly cleric's  heart. 

Whilst  Smith  was  absorbing  the  atmosphere  of  peace 
that  pervaded  the  vicarage  garden,  the  village  was 
seething  with  excitement.  The  cricket-match  was  only 
hours  away,  and  Little  Bilstead's  own  particular  black 
sheep  was  to  play. 

The  farmers  swore  that  there  was  "narthen  being 
done."  As  a  matter  of  fact  there  was  a  great  deal 
being  done  in  the  way  of  scandal  and  reminiscence. 


Never  had  the  gregarious  instinct  been  more  manifest 
in  Little  Bilstead.  It  was  not  to  be  expected  that, 
in  the  face  of  such  dramatic  happenings,  men  or  women 
could  be  expected  to  work  apart,  when  they  were  al- 
most bursting  to  convey  to  one  another  some  wave 
of  recollection  that  had  just  undulated  into  their  slug- 
gish brains. 

Phyllis,  whose  place  was  in  the  dairy,  "dang  her," 
would  be  found  by  her  master  in  the  stables,  where 
Thomas  was  attending  to  the  horses;  or  "that  there 
Job  Dale,"  who  by  rights  should  have  been  "carting 
tarnips,"  would  be  discovered  in  the  kitchen  telling 
Mary  what  "they  do  say  in  the  village,"  and  what 
they  did  say  the  night  before  at  The  Pigeons. 

Tom  Bassingthwaighte,  the  postman,  carried  from 
house  to  house  the  latest  rumours,  picking  up  addi- 
tional tit-bits  as  he  went.  By  the  time  he  reached 
the  end  of  his  round,  his  voice  had  become  a  mere 
croak.  He  was  also,  as  he  confessed  to  himself,  in- 
clined to  "squiffiness";  for  the  news  was  good  and  was 
well  paid  for,  and  more  than  one  homestead  in  the 
neighbourhood  was  noted  for  the  strength  and  potency 
of  its  home-brew. 

In  the  meantime,  his  sister,  Martha  Bassing- 
thwaighte, who  officially  was  the  post-mistress,  sold 
stamps  as  she  had  never  sold  stamps  before.  She 
was  deaf  and  placid,  her  deafness  being  exaggerated 
that  it  might  serve  officially  for  defensive  purposes. 
No  armour,  however,  could  resist  the  penetrating 
power  of  the  events  of  the  past  few  days,  and  Martha 
Bassingthwaighte  surprised  many  of  her  customers  by 
the  amount  she  knew,  and  the  quickness  with  which 
she  picked  up  each  new  detail  of  importance. 

In  Little  Bilstead  the  post-office  was  the  centre  of 


172        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

information.  What  Tom  Bassingthwaighte  did  not 
know  about  local  affairs  need  worry  no  one. 

His  lateness  in  returning  from  his  morning  round  on 
the  Monday  following  the  return  of  Alfred  Warren 
constituted  a  serious  grievance  to  the  village.  Colonel 
Enderby,  who  had  made  three  separate  visits  to  the 
post-office  at  a  cost  of  three  separate  twopenny  stamps, 
announced  his  intention  of  reporting  the  circumstance 
to  the  Postmaster-General.  Miss  Jell  had  called  twice, 
once  for  a  packet  of  post-cards,  which  she  really  re- 
quired and  once  to  refer  to  the  Post  Office  Guide  for 
information  about  the  South  American  mails,  which 
she  did  not  require. 

Mr.  Marshall  had  loitered  about  the  village  since  an 
unusually  early  breakfast;  but  even  he  had  been  an- 
ticipated by  Mrs.  Spelman,  whom  nothing  could  keep 
away,  not  even  another  accident  to  Prinny's  tail. 

All  were  hoping  for  a  further  glimpse  of  the  prodigal 
himself;  but  Smith  found  the  vicarage  garden  infinitely 
more  to  his  taste  than  supplying  material  for  the  village 
gossips. 

Several  times  he  strolled  the  short  distance  to  The 
Grange  gates,  in  the  hope  of  catching  a  glimpse  of 
Marjorie;  but  without  success.  On  one  occasion  he 
encountered  the  choleric  Colonel  Enderby,  whom  he 
recognised  from  Eric's  description. 

The  Colonel  approached  like  a  motor-car  burning 
bad  petrol,  puffing  and  snorting  and  producing  strange 
noises  from  within.  As  he  passed,  he  glared  at  Smith 
as  if  he  expected  him  to  wither  away  under  the  intensity 
of  his  hate.  Ten  minutes  later  Old  End,  as  Eric  called 
him,  was  back  in  the  village,  with  the  latest  news  but 
little  breath,  and  promptly  became  the  centre  of  an 
excited  group  of  scandal-seekers. 


LITTLE  BILSTEAD  GOES  TO  CHURCH       173 

That  afternoon,  social  Little  Bilstead  found  it  im- 
possible to  take  its  tea  alone,  and  repeated  the  episode 
of  Taffy's  house,  with  however  this  difference,  that 
there  was  no  discoverable  larceny. 

The  Miss  Jells  called  upon  Mrs.  Truspitt-Greene, 
who  had  just  gone  to  call  upon  Mrs.  Spelman,  who  was 
under  way  to  see  Mrs.  Crane.  The  doctor's  wife,  how- 
ever, was  half-way  to  The  Cedars  before  she  encoun- 
tered the  Marshalls,  who  were  bound  for  Colonel  En- 
derby's,  who  was  actually  ringing  the  Marshalls'  bell 
at  the  moment  of  the  encounter. 

Everybody  had  selected  a  "cross  country"  route,  so 
as  not  to  be  seen  by  "prying  eyes."  The  result  was 
that  those  who  took  tea  at  all  that  afternoon  took  it 
late  and  in  their  own  homes.  In  consequence  there 
was  a  general  wave  of  acute  disappointment,  and  the 
prodigal's  stock  fell  several  more  points. 

At  The  Pigeons,  John  Nudd  rubbed  his  hands.  Each 
night  the  discussion  seemed  to  wax  hotter,  and  in  con- 
sequence thirsts  became  greater.  The  cricket-match 
was  dwarfed  by  the  greater  event  of  Mist'  Alfred's 
return. 

As  the  night  progressed,  however,  the  fierceness  of 
the  discussion  subsided  somewhat,  and  when  the  time 
came  for  the  final  shuffling  of  feet,  preluding  the  closing 
of  John  Nudd's  hospitable  doors  for  the  night,  some 
rustic  philosopher  would  announce  that  when  Bob  Thir- 
kettle  returned  the  prodigal  would  "cop  it  a  rum  un" 
and,  with  a  chorus  of  acquiescing  grunts  or  growls,  each 
would  go  his  way,  trusting  that,  when  the  epic  en- 
counter took  place,  Fate  would  so  arrange  it  that  he 
should  be  somewhere  in  the  vicinity. 

Eric  had  constituted  himself  a  sort  of  Mercury.  He 
ran  back  and  forth  to  the  vicarage  like  a  puppy  on  the 


174        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

first  day  of  spring.  He  was  invariably  in  a  hurry, 
and  always  brought  the  latest  account  of  what  was 
taking  place  in  the  village. 

He  did  not,  however,  make  any  mention  of  an  en- 
counter he  had  with  Postle,  the  ensuing  cross-examina- 
tion, or  of  the  fact  that  he  had  striven  to  convince 
the  village  constable  that  the  fatal  shot,  which  had 
caught  the  check-suited  stranger  whilst  in  a  stooping 
position,  had  been  fired  by  Smith. 

On  the  Tuesday,  Smith  decided  to  take  a  stroll  to- 
wards the  village  to  see  how  things  were  shaping.  He 
had  not  proceeded  more  than  a  few  hundred  yards 
down  the  road  when  he  came  suddenly  upon  Miss  Mary 
Jell.  At  the  sight  of  him,  she  turned  and  literally 
ran  for  the  shelter  of  Mrs.  Spelman's  garden  gate. 

Undaunted  by  this  rather  startling  manifestation  of 
his  unpopularity,  Smith  had  continued  on  his  way. 
The  hour,  however,  was  just  before  social  Little  Bil- 
stead  lunched,  and  all  had  returned  to  the  seclusion  of 
their  own  roofs. 

The  antagonism  of  the  villagers  themselves,  how- 
ever, was  marked  by  a  bold  expressionless  stare  from 
the  few  women  he  encountered,  a  scowl  from  the  still 
fewer  men,  and  by  three  stones  and  two  cries  about 
Bob  Thirkettle's  "mawther"  from  the  children. 

Returning  to  the  vicarage,  Smith  told  Miss  Lip- 
scombe  of  his  experience.  Grim-lipped  and  steely  of 
eye,  she  had  advised  him  to  keep  away  from  the  vil- 
lage, at  least  for  a  day  or  two. 

He  knew  the  advice  had  less  connection  with  the 
recent  demonstration  than  the  dramatic  possibilities 
likely  to  result  from  the  return  of  Bob  Thirkettle. 

"I'm  afraid,"  she  said  at  dinner  that  evening,   "I 


LITTLE  BILSTEAD  GOES  TO  CHURCH       175 

shall  have  to  hold  you  prisoner  for  a  few  days,"  and 
there  was  a  smile  in  her  eyes  and  that  queer  little  flut- 
tering at  the  corners  of  her  firm  mouth  as  she  spoke. 
"I'm  an  old  woman,"  she  continued,  "and  I  like  young 
society." 

And  Smith  had  assured  her  that  he  asked  nothing 
better  than  the  hospitality  of  the  vicarage.  "For 
James  Smith,"  he  had  concluded,  "and  not  Alfred 
Warren." 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  James  Smith,"  was  Miss  Lip- 
scombe's  dry  retort. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

NERO  IN  DISGRACE 

THAT  the  news  of  the  return  of  the  prodigal  had 
filtered  beyond  the  confines  of  Little  Bilstead, 
soon  became  apparent  to  Smith,  by  the  number 
of  letters  that  arrived  at  The  Grange  addressed  to 
Alfred  Warren.  The  quality  of  the  stationery  used 
by  the  correspondents,  together  with  certain  crudities 
of  calligraphy  they  manifested,  seemed  to  emphasise 
the  truth  of  Willis'  statement  that  Alfred  Warren  had 
been  democratic  in  his  tastes. 

These  letters  Willis  religiously  sent  over  to  the 
vicarage,  and  Smith  as  religiously  returned  them,  when 
possible  by  the  same  messenger,  who  was  mostly  Nudd 
fits.  It  was  none  of  his  business,  Smith  decided,  what 
Alfred's  friends  had  to  say  after  a  lapse  of  seven 
years;  the  breaking  of  the  seals  was  obviously  the 
affair  of  the  real  prodigal,  should  he  ever  decide  to 
return. 

An  article  in  The  Norfolk  Post  headed  "Return  of 
the  Wanderer"  was  no  doubt  responsible  for  these 
epistolary  attentions. 

The  ancients  adjured  one  another  to  speak  no  evil 
of  the  dead,  The  Norfolk  Post  went  a  step  further, 
by  including  the  recently  returned.  The  article,  a 
column  in  length,  dealt  mostly  with  the  late  Sir  Joseph 
Warren's  well-known  charities,  the  subject  of  the  prod- 
igal's disappearance  and  return  being  dismissed  in  a 

few  lines.     "We  understand,"  it  concluded,  "that  for 

176 


NERO  IN  DISGRACE  177 

the  last  few  years  Mr.  Warren  has  been  travelling 
abroad  for  the  benefit  of  his  health." 

Whether  this  was  irony  or  good-nature,  Smith  could 
not  decide;  but  that  there  was  no  question  about  the 
accuracy  of  the  statement  was  proved,  a  few  days  later, 
by  an  incident  that  occurred  one  afternoon  as  he  was 
setting  out  for  a  walk. 

He  was  half-way  down  the  drive  of  the  vicarage, 
when  he  became  aware  that,  coming  towards  him, 
was  a  puffy  little  man  wearing  a  loud  check  suit  and 
a  vile  tie;  himself  he  was  extremely  sensitive  about 
neckwear. 

'At  the  sight  of  Smith,  the  little  man  increased  his 
pace  to  a  strange  movement,  half  bounce,  half  trot. 
His  hands  were  outstretched,  his  face  beaming.  It 
was  obvious  that  he  was  extremely  pleased  about  some- 
thing. 

"My  dear  fellow!"  he  cried  when  within  a  few 
yards  of  Smith.  "After  many  years!"  and  he  made 
an  effort  to  clutch  Smith's  hands. 

Smith  gazed  at  him  curiously.  His  moist,  fat  face 
radiated  good-will,  just  as  his  teeth  blazed  with  alien 
gold. 

"Welcome  home!"  cried  the  little  man,  with  the 
air  of  one  trying  his  second  barrel  upon  a  bird  he 
has  missed  with  his  first.  "Welcome  home!"  he  re- 
peated. 

"That's  very  kind  of  you,"  said  Smith,  smiling  in 
spite  of  himself  at  this  little  creature,  who  seemed  to 
exude  good-will;  "but  whose  welcome  and  to  what 
home?" 

This  question  seemed  to  stagger  the  little  man.  For 
nearly  a  minute  he  stood  gazing  at  Smith,  then,  re- 


178        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

moving  his  Panama,  which  was  garnished  by  a  narrow 
ribbon  of  red  and  black  stripes,  two  red  and  one  black, 
he  mopped  his  thinly  thatched  head  with  a  white  silk 
handkerchief  that  gave  off  a  strong  odour  of  eau-de- 
cologne. 

"You've  not  forgotten  Jonathan  Bluggs?"  he  cried 
at  length.  "The  One  and  Only,  no  limit,  pays  on  the 
tin-tack.  You  haven't  forgotten  Bluggy,  surely?" 

There  was  a  note  in  his  voice  suggestive  of  anxiety, 
and  Mr.  Bluggs's  right  hand  moved  towards  his  left 
breast-pocket,  a  sinister  hardness  beginning  to  manifest 
itself  at  the  corners  of  his  mouth. 

"No,  I  haven't  forgotten  you,"  said  Smith,  on  whom 
light  was  beginning  to  dawn. 

"I  knew  it,  old  warrior!"  cried  Mr.  Bluggs  with 
garish  heartiness,  his  hand  dropping  from  his  breast- 
pocket. "I  knew  that  Alfred  the  Greatest  would  re- 
member the  old  horse  that  carried  him  over  many  a 
nasty  water-jump." 

"I've  not  forgotten  you,"  continued  Smith  quietly, 
"because  I'm  afraid  I  never  knew  you,"  and  he  smiled 
with  engaging  simplicity. 

Mr.  Bluggs  stared  at  him  in  sheer  bewilderment. 
Gradually  the  smile  vanished  from  his  face,  the  hard- 
ness at  the  corners  of  his  mouth  became  emphasised, 
and  his  hand  wandered  once  more  in  the  direction  of 
his  breast-pocket. 

"Here,  come  orf  of  it!" 

Smith's  eyes  widened  slightly. 

"I  heard  that  was  the  lay,"  he  continued  aggres- 
sively, the  sunshine  of  his  smile  vanishing,  leaving  only 
a  pasty  complexion,  a  pair  of  little  slit-like  eyes,  des- 
titute of  lashes,  and  a  nose  several  sizes  too  large  for 


NERO  IN  DISGRACE  179 

the  mouth  it  tried  to  peer  into.  "I've  heard  all  about 
that  stunt;  but  it's  not  good  enough  for  Johnnie 
Bluggs." 

"Otherwise  Bluggy,"  murmured  Smith. 

"Bluggy  be  damned!" 

"Let  us  take  things  in  their  correct  chronological 
order,"  smiled  Smith.  He  was  both  interested  and 
amused. 

Mr.  Bluggs  seemed  nonplussed,  then,  as  if  suddenly 
remembering  something,  he  dived  into  his  breast- 
pocket. Drawing  out  a  letter-case,  he  selected  a  paper, 
and  thrust  it  towards  Smith. 

"What  do  you  make  of  that?"  he  demanded. 

Smith  took  the  paper  and  examined  it  curiously. 

"It  looks  like  a  promissory  note  for  £431  6s.  2d." 

"It's  a  copy.  The  original's  at  my  banker's,'* 
snapped  Mr.  Bluggs.  "I  ain't  a  mug." 

Smith  raised  his  eyes  from  the  note. 

"No?"  he  queried. 

"No,  Mr.  Bloomin'  Alfred  Warren.  'Aven't  you 
got  anythink  else  to  say?"  he  demanded,  snatching  back 
the  note  and  replacing  it  in  his  letter-case. 

"Nothing  beyond  the  fact  that  I  am  not  Mr.  Alfred 
Warren;  but  Mr.  James  Smith.  Incidentally  the  note 
is,  I  believe,  what  is  known  in  legal  circles  as  statute- 
barred." 

Mr.  Bluggs  displayed  more  gold-filled  teeth — but 
they  were  not  the  teeth  of  effusive  welcome. 

"It  is  dated  February  seven  years  ago,"  continued 
Smith,  "and  this  is  July.  I — " 

He  was  interrupted  by  a  torrent  of  abuse  from 
Mr.  Bluggs.  His  face  seemed  even  more  puffy  in 
its  flushed  than  in  its  normal  state  of  yellow.  For  a 


180        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

small  man,  his  lung  power  was  really  remarkable, 
Smith  decided,  and  the  way  in  which  his  eyelids  opened 
and  shut  fascinated  him. 

In  Mr.  Bluggs's  oration,  there  was  much  about  what 
he  had  done  for  Alfred  Warren,  putting  him  on  sure 
things  "on  tick" ;  and  then  to  be  served  like  this.  He 
hinted  darkly  that  it  was  in  his  power  to  contrive 
Alfred  Warren's  criminal  prosecution  for  crimes  that 
would  rock  the  county  with  scandal  for  years  to  come. 

Not  once  did  Mr.  Bluggs  repeat  himself  in  his 
volume  of  denunciation,  nor  did  he  grow  hoarse. 
Little  points  of  foam  gathered  at  the  corners  of  his 
mouth,  as  if  desirous  of  softening  the  hardness  of  the 
lines. 

Smith  decided  that  Mr.  Bluggs  must  be  a  practised 
speaker — probably  to  race-course  crowds. 

"Now  I  am  afraid  I  must  be  going,"  said  Smith 
at  length,  just  as  Mr.  Bluggs  was  telling  how,  only 
last  month,  he  had  got  a  man  seven  years. 

"Not  till  you  pay  up,  my  beauty,"  announced  Mr. 
Bluggs,  placing  himself  directly  in  Smith's  path. 

"Mr.  Bluggs,"  said  Smith  quietly,  "do  you  see  that 
holly-bush  ?"  He  gazed  towards  a  large  clump  of  prick- 
liness.  Mr.  Bluggs's  eyes  followed  Smith's  gaze;  but 
he  said  nothing.  "If  you  don't  go  at  once  I  shall  drop 
you  right  on  the  top  of  it,  and  holly  hurts." 

"You  wouldn't — "  Mr.  Bluggs  was  arrested  in  the 
midst  of  his  defiance  by  something  he  saw  in  Smith's 
eyes.  For  several  seconds  he  looked,  then,  turning 
on  his  heel,  he  walked  down  the  drive,  muttering  curses 
and  threats  of  what  would  happen  when  he  saw  his 
solicitor. 

"I'm  beginning  to  feel  a  respect  for  Alfred  Warren," 


NERO  IN  DISGRACE  181 

murmured  Smith,  as  he  followed  the  departing  book- 
maker. "He  probably  realised  to  the  full  the  pitfalls 
of  the  prodigal  who  indiscreetly  returns !" 

Having  seen  Mr.  Bluggs  safely  enter  a  two-seater, 
in  which  sat  one  whom  Smith  instinctively  felt  was 
not  Mrs.  Bluggs,  and  drive  away,  he  turned  in  the 
opposite  direction. 

After  three  cars  had  dashed  past,  leaving  him  to 
inhale  the  dust  they  raised  and  the  exhausts  they  left, 
he  decided  that  cross-country  would  be  pleasanter 
walking. 

He  had  crossed  two  fields  when  suddenly  he  saw 
something  that  dismissed  from  his  mind  all  thought 
of  Mr.  Jonathan  Bluggs  and  Alfred  Warren. 

Seated  on  a  gate  just  ahead  of  him  was  Marjorie, 
her  horse,  Nero,  standing  beside  her,  his  head  resting 
against  her  arm. 

She  was  gazing  over  her  shoulder  in  the  opposite 
direction  from  that  of  Smith's  approach. 

"Good  morning,"  he  said,  lifting  his  cap  and  throw- 
ing away  his  cigarette. 

Marjorie  started  and  nearly  over-balanced.  Recov- 
ering herself,  she  returned  his  greeting. 

At  the  sound  of  approaching  footsteps,  Nero  had 
turned  and  stood  regarding  Smith  with  grave,  specu- 
lative eyes. 

"Well,  old  fellow,"  said  Smith.  "You  look  pretty 
fit." 

As  if  gratified  by  the  remark,  Nero  took  a  step 
towards  him,  arching  his  neck  in  a  way  that  clearly 
invited  the  caress  he  most  appreciated. 

"He  looks  as  if  he  could  take  anything  there  is," 
remarked  Smith,  running  a  critical  eye  over  Nero's 


182        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

delicate  lines.  "Do  you  always  ride  cross-country?" 
he  queried  of  Marjorie. 

"Nero  doesn't  like  the  roads,"  she  replied,  an  almost 
imperceptible  frown  quivering  about  her  eyebrows. 
"He  hates  motors,"  she  added. 

Smith  reached  down  to  his  nearest  foreleg,  Nero 
lifting  it  slightly  as  if  in  acknowledgment  of  a  com- 
pliment, at  the  same  time  whinnying  softly  as  if  to 
himself. 

"Nero!"  she  cried,  as  he  endeavoured  to  insert  his 
muzzle  into  the  right-hand  pocket  of  Smith's  coat.  He 
had  already  made  Nero's  acquaintance  in  his  sumptu- 
ous loose-box,  where  he  had  ministered  to  his  passion 
for  sugar. 

"I've  just  been  having  a  little  discussion  with  a  gen- 
tleman known  to  his  intimates  as  Bluggy,  who  insists 
that  I  owe  him  four  hundred  and  thirty-one  pounds  six 
shillings  and  twopence,"  said  Smith,  as  he  stroked 
Nero's  glossy  neck.  "When  I  said  that,  like  the  village 
blacksmith,  I  owed  not  any  man,  he  became  melodra- 
matic, and  I  had  to  threaten  to  toss  him  into  a  clump 
of  holly  before  he  realised  the  physical  advantages  of 
reticence." 

A  look  of  interest  sprang  into  Marjorie's  eyes. 
Smith  was  encouraged. 

"Nero,  come  here,"  she  called,  as  he  proceeded  to 
make  further  search  for  the  bonanza  he  knew  to  be 
somewhere  secreted  about  this  Sugar  Man. 

"Life  in  Little  Bilstead  seems  rich  in  incident,"  he 
said,  smiling  up  at  her.  He  was  determined  to  ignore 
her  coldness  and  indifference.  • 


NERO  IN  DISGRACE  183 

"It  has  not  generally  that  reputation/'  she  said 
gravely. 

"Possibly  places  are  like  people,  we  get  from  them 
what  we  most  look  for,"  he  suggested. 

"And  you  look  for  incident?"  The  question  seemed 
to  spring  to  her  lips  in  spite  of  herself. 

"Don't  you  think  I  have  reason?"  he  queried. 

She  did  not  reply.  She  was  angry  with  herself  for 
asking  the  question.  It  was  a  direct  encouragement 
to  conversation.  Why  had  she  done  it?  She  had  de- 
cided time  after  time  not  to — and  now  she  had  de- 
liberately promoted  discussion. 

"Personally  I  should  say  that  life  here  is  intensely 
episodic,"  he  continued.  "I  think  that  is  why  I  decided 
to  stay  on." 

"Yes?"  she  interrogated  politely. 

Certainly  she  was  the  most  puzzling  girl  to  talk  to. 
She  slew  each  topic  of  conversation  as  it  was  born. 

"That  and  the  vicarage  hospitality,"  he  continued. 
"I  am  rather  like  Bulldog  Drummond,  I  require  ex- 
citement." 

Another  gap  of  silence  followed,  which  Smith  filled 
in  by  producing  two  more  lumps  of  sugar.  Nero 
fastened  upon  them  in  a  flash. 

"Eric  seems  to  be  looking  forward  to  the  cricket- 
match,"  he  said  presently,  as  he  struggled  to  lift  Nero's 
inquisitive  nose  from  his  left-hand  pocket.  Eric,  he 
decided,  was  his  last  trench. 

"Poor  Eric!"  she  said  softly,  a  slight  smile  flutter- 
ing the  corners  of  her  mouth.  "This  is  his  third  match, 
and  he  hasn't  made  a  run  yet." 

"But  he  will,"  said  Smith,  determined  to  seize  what 


184        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

really  looked  like  a  promising  conversational  opening. 

She  shook  her  head  with  conviction. 

"But  haven't  you  anybody?"  he  asked,  determined 
to  keep  to  this  promising  subject.  "What  about  Dr. 
Crane?" 

"He  holds  a  bat  as  if  it  were  a  hockey-stick,"  she 
said,  and  once  more  a  seemingly  fruitful  topic  lay  slain. 

Feverishly  he  cast  about  him  for  some  one  or  some- 
thing to  throw  into  the  breach.  Mentally  he  reviewed 
Willis,  Mrs.  Higgs,  the  vicar,  young  Nudd  and  old 
Simmons;  all  seemed  destitute  of  those  qualities  upon 
which  ideas  are  exchanged.  Furthermore,  they  were 
so  intimately  associated  with  what  he  was  anxious  to 
avoid,  the  departure  or  the  return  of  Alfred  Warren. 

The  breach  was  due  to  Marjorie  having  suddenly 
realised  that  she  was  engaged  in  doing  the  very  thing 
she  had  vowed  never  to  do,  not  even  to  please  Lady 
Warren — she  was  talking  as  a  friend  might  talk  to  the 
man  whose  life  outraged  all  her  ideals  of  what  a  man 
should  be. 

Twice  in  the  space  of  a  few  minutes  she  had  broken 
faith  with  herself;  yet  she  had  asked  Eric  to  see  as 
little  as  possible  of  the  very  person  she  was — 

"I  think  Nero  has  had  as  much  sugar  as  is  good 
for  him,"  she  said,  with  an  iciness  that  would  have 
chilled  the  garrulousness  of  Pepys  himself. 

Smith  realised  that  it  was  the  closure,  the  guillotine. 
Even  Nero  lifted  an  enquiring  head  from  the  investi- 
gation of  Smith's  pockets,  as  if  struck  by  something 
strange  in  his  beloved  mistress'  voice. 

A  small  brown  hand  stretched  out  and  caressed  the 
burnished  arch  of  his  neck,  and  he  knew  that  he  was 
not  the  cause.  It  must  be  the  Sugar  Man,  he  decided. 


NERO  IN  DISGRACE  185 

Smith  realised  that  he  had  no  alternative  but  to  lift 
his  cap  and  pass  on. 

Nero,  however,  did  not  share  his  mistress'  views 
upon  this  newcomer's  undesirability.  He  knew  nothing 
of  prodigals,  although  he  possessed  a  vast  knowledge 
of  men.  Those,  for  instance,  who  carried  in  either 
pocket  of  their  coats  a  handful  of  what  to  Nero  were 
white  cubes  of  unalloyed  bliss,  he  knew  to  be  in  every 
way  desirable;  whilst  those  who  did  not — well,  they 
didn't  count. 

As  Smith  strode  off,  Nero  took  a  hesitating  step 
after  him. 

"Nero !"  she  cried  sharply.  "Come  here,"  and  Nero 
turned  on  a  reluctant  hoof.  "I'm  ashamed  of  you !" 

Nero  turned  his  large  expressive  eyes  upon  his  mis- 
tress. There  was  in  her  tone  something  that  caused 
him  concern.  After  all,  it  was  he  who  had  done  it, 
apparently,  and  not  the  Sugar  Man;  yet —  He 
stretched  out  his  head  towards  her,  but  she  drew 
back.  His  worst  forebodings  were  confirmed.  He 
took  a  half-step  in  her  direction;  for,  with  good  oats 
and  kind  words,  she  constituted  his  world — with  sugar, 
of  course. 

"No,  Nero,  I'm  not  going  to  forgive  you,"  she  said, 
leaning  her  body  away  from  him  and  emphasising  the 
supple  lines  of  her  young  figure. 

"You  know  he  isn't  nice!"  she  continued  presently. 
"Yet—"  She  broke  off. 

Nero  gazed  at  her  with  large,  liquid  eyes  full  of 
anxious  concern.  The  arch  of  his  glossy  neck  became 
less  marked,  and  his  head  drooped.  He  recognised 
that  the  trouble  was  serious,  and  he  was  a  master  of 
subtlety  and  tact. 


186        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

"You  know  as  well  as  I  do,"  continued  Marjorie, 
"that  he  isn't  nice.  Now  don't  you?"  There  was 
challenge  in  her  look,  and  Nero's  large,  sad  eyes  be- 
came larger  and  sadder,  and  his  head  drooped  still 
further. 

"Yet,"  she  continued,  "you  behave  as  if  he  were  a 
great  friend,  as  if  I  liked  him."  She  gazed  away 
towards  where  a  pinewood  seemed  to  rear  its  delicate 
crests  into  the  white-flecked  summer  sky. 

"Now  don't  you?"  Her  eyes  were  still  on  the  pine- 
wood,  and  a  dreamy  look  had  crept  into  them. 

For  some  minutes  she  continued  gazing,  apparently 
at  the  wood,  Nero  watching  her  with  speculative  and 
mournful  brown  eyes. 

Presently  he  raised  a  tentative  hoof.  Then  he 
waited.  Without  a  sound  the  hoof  came  to  earth 
again,  a  good  eight  inches  nearer  Marjorie.  Another 
hoof  followed,  and  another. 

He  was  determined  not  to  hasten  matters.  He  had 
known  such  crises  before,  and  they  required  handling 
with  the  utmost  delicacy  and  tact.  He  understood  the 
art  of  sympathetic  self-effacement. 

Marjorie  continued  to  gaze  into  the  wonderland  of 
her  own  thoughts.  Presently  something  soft  as  velvet 
touched  her  cheek,  and  a  moment  later  a  humble  muzzle 
was  resting  lightly  on  her  shoulder. 

The  small  brown  hand  was  raised  and,  as  Nero  felt 
its  gentle  touch,  he  knew  that,  however  heinous  his 
crime,  he  was  forgiven,  and  the  proud  arch  returned 
to  his  silky  neck. 

"Can  people  really  change  like  that,  Nero?"  she 
murmured  musingly,  continuing  to  fondle  the  head  rest- 
ing upon  her  shoulder. 


NERO  IN  DISGRACE  187 

He  turned  his  eyes  towards  her  so  that  the  whites 
became  visible,  and  nuzzled  against  her  cheek. 

"Of  course  they  can't!"  she  cried  a  moment  later. 
"You  know  very  well  they  can't,  Nero,  only  being  a 
man  you  won't  say  so,"  and  she  laughed  lightly. 

The  dreamy  look  had  gone  from  her  eyes,  and  the 
determined  little  chin  had  once  more  resumed  its 
customary  tilt  of  decision. 

"Now  for  a  real  old  gallop !"  she  cried  gaily — "hell 
for  leather!" 

Nero  whinnied  his  relief. 

"Hush,  Nero !"  she  murmured  a  moment  later. 
"You  mustn't  say  such  things,"  and  Nero  bravely  as- 
sumed the  responsibility  with  another  whinny  of  joy, 
as  she  slipped  into  the  saddle. 

A  few  minutes  later  Smith  saw  them  careering  over 
the  countryside,  taking  everything  that  came,  and  tak- 
ing it  well. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

SMITH  BECOMES  A  POPULAR  HERO 


""^7"OU'RE  sure  you've  finished  both  your  sermons 
|     for  Sunday,  John?" 

"Quite    sure,    Hannah,"    replied    the   vicar 
meekly. 

"And  there  is  nothing  about  cricket  in  them?"  in- 
quired Miss  Lipscombe,  the  lines  at  the  corners  of  her 
mouth  deepening. 

"Nothing  at  all,  Hannah,"  he  replied  with  the  air  of 
a  child  being  put  through  its  catechism. 

"Then  I  think  you  may  go,"  she  said,  and  the  vicar 
passed  down  the  drive,  overtaking  Smith  at  the  gate. 

The  vicar's  first  thought  that  morning  had  been  the 
weather  and  its  probable  effect  upon  the  wicket.  He 
had  thought  of  little  else  than  cricket  for  the  past  week, 
and  it  was  with  a  sigh  of  content  that  he  had  seen,  from 
his  bedroom  window,  the  sun  climbing  a  cloudless  sky. 

As  they  walked  towards  the  cricket-field,  Smith  was 
acutely  conscious  of  his  newly-acquired  "Gents'  Super- 
fine Unshrinkable  Flans,"  as  his  trousers  had  been 
officially  labelled.  He  had  carefully  preserved  the 
ticket  in  his  pocket-book;  it  was  obviously  a  document 
for  the  family  muniment-chest. 

He  was  engaged  in  speculating  as  to  where  reach-me- 
down  outfitters  recruited  their  models  of  British  man- 
hood, when  a  turn  in  the  road  brought  them  in  sight  of 
the  field  of  play.  Already  it  was  deeply  fringed  with 
spectators.  The  vicar  quickened  his  steps,  as  if  eager 

188 


SMITH  BECOMES  A  POPULAR  HERO    189 

that  his  body  should  be  where  his  heart  obviously  was. 

Greeted  right  and  left,  they  passed  through  the  gate. 
Everybody  was  light-hearted  and  prepared  for  enjoy- 
ment. Festivity  was  in  the  air,  and  laughter  sprang 
readily  to  lips  already  curved  to  its  call.  The  shrill 
cries  of  the  girls  and  the  hoarse  shouts  of  the  men 
testified  to  the  roughness  of  the  jests;  whilst  the  mellow 
crack  of  bat  hitting  ball  was  heard  from  all  parts  of 
the  field,  as  the  players  strove  feverishly  to  get  them- 
selves into  form. 

There  flashed  into  the  vicar's  eyes  a  look  that  was 
new  to  Smith.  It  was  suggestive  of  a  war-horse  that 
once  more  scents  battle. 

As  they  made  their  way  across  the  field,  Smith  was 
conscious  of  many  curious  glances  and  whisperings  from 
the  groups  they  passed,  the  words  "Mist'  Alfred"  be- 
ing clearly  identifiable. 

Vehicles  were  still  arriving,  accommodation  having 
been  provided  for  them  in  a  neighbouring  meadow, 
where  the  horses  were  turned  loose  to  graze.  They, 
too,  would  enjoy  the  day.  Late  arrivals  hurried 
through  the  gates,  laden  with  baskets  and  hampers. 
There  was  much  good-humoured  badinage.  Little  Bil- 
stead  and  Upper  Saxton  were  out  to  enjoy  themselves. 

Round  the  scorers'  tent  had  been  roped-off  a  sort  of 
enclosure.  Here,  in  little  groups,  the  society  of  the 
neighbourhood  exchanged  ideas  and  talked  scandal. 

"I  regard  it  as  infamous!"  were  the  first  words  that 
greeted  Smith's  ears  as  he  followed  the  vicar  past  the 
guardian  of  the  social  holy  of  holies.  "I  have  told 
Postle  what  I  think,  and  I  shall — "  Suddenly  the  voice 
stopped.  Colonel  Enderby  had  caught  sight  of  Smith 
and  the  vicar. 


190        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

An  atmosphere  of  gala  was  indelibly  stamped  upon 
the  gallant  colonel's  clothing.  Above  a  pair  of  flannel 
trousers,  yellow  with  age,  was  a  shrunken  Zingari 
blazer  made  for  a  much  shorter  man,  and  above  this 
again  was  an  ancient  Panama  hat. 

As  the  vicar  exchanged  greetings  with  those  about 
him,  he  seemed  to  have  been  metamorphosed.  His 
habitual  air  of  absent-mindedness  had  vanished,  and 
in  his  heart  was  the  enthusiasm  of  a  keen  cricketer. 

"They've  only  got  two  new  fellows,  both  sloggers," 
cried  Eric,  dashing  up  to  them.  "We've  jolly  well  got 
to  lick  them  to  a  fraz,  haven't  we,  sir?"  he  appealed  to 
the  vicar,  who  shook  his  head  doubtfully. 

"I  fear  I  have  been  remiss  in  not — in  not — "  He 
paused.  It  was  habitual  with  the  Rev.  John  Lipscombe 
to  saddle  himself  with  responsibilities  that  were  not 
rightly  his. 

He  and  Eric  soon  became  involved  in  a  technical 
discussion  upon  the  relative  merits  of  Little  Bilstead 
batting  and  Upper  Saxton  bowling. 

As  they  did  not  seem  to  require  his  assistance,  Smith 
continued  to  look  about  him.  He  caught  a  glimpse  of 
Miss  Jell  rising  out  of  a  pyramid  of  lavender  flounces; 
whilst  Miss  Mary  Jell  looked  like  an  anachronism  in  a 
white  muslin  frock,  sprinkled  with  yellow  daisies  and 
small  green  leaves. 

As  they  became  aware  of  Smith's  gaze,  Miss  Mary 
dropped  her  eyes,  whilst  her  sister  bowed  stiffly,  and 
opened  her  parasol,  also  flounced,  as  if  Smith  were  a 
bull. 

Mr.  Marshall  and  his  daughter  were  talking  to  Mrs. 
Crane.  The  Marshalls  were  always  early  arrivals. 
For  Mr.  Marshall  the  cricket  match  was  a  field-day. 


SMITH  BECOMES  A  POPULAR  HERO    191 

Everybody  brought  something  in  the  way  of  food  and 
drink,  even  those  whose  homes  were  near  the  field  of 
play,  whilst  those  who  lived  at  a  distance  brought 
luncheon-hampers,  which  to  him  were  veritable  corn- 
ucopias. 

Mr.  Marshall  had  been  known  to  pick  up  as  many  as 
two  luncheons  and  three  teas  at  one  cricket-match,  to 
say  nothing  of  oddments  in  between,  such  as  fruit,  cake 
and  lemonade.  On  such  occasions  the  evening  meal  of 
the  Marshalls  was  a  comparatively  trifling  affair. 

Smith  noticed  that  Mr.  Marshall  wore  a  pair  of 
white  drill  trousers,  with  a  large  brown  stain  above 
the  right  knee.  Where  these  ancient  garments  had 
first  seen  light,  or  how  Mr.  Marshall  had  acquired 
them,  was  a  matter  of  speculation  in  Little  Bilstead; 
but  all  agreed  that  they  were  not  English  and,  in  con- 
sequence, to  be  regarded  with  suspicion. 

The  brown  stain  above  the  right  knee,  however,  was 
known  to  belong  exclusively  to  Mr.  Marshall,  who  had 
chosen  the  night  of  one  of  the  annual  cricket  matches 
to  upset  the  inkstand. 

Mrs.  Spelman  had  created  a  mild  sensation  by  ap- 
pearing with  a  "new"  toque,  from  the  folds  of  which 
coyly  peeped  out  a  small  white  tip.  For  as  far  back 
as  the  best  memory  could  carry,  Mrs.  Spelman  had 
jgone  through  life  with  two  tips;  the  addition  of  a 
third  was  something  in  the  nature  of  a  sartorial  event. 

All  knew  that  as  the  years  rolled  on,  this  tip  would 
be  cleaned  a  few  times,  then  it  would  pass  through  the 
whole  rainbow  of  colours,  deepening  in  tint  with  each 
plunge  into  the  dye-tub,  until  at  length  it  would,  in  all 
probability,  emerge  black — that  is  to  say  if  Mrs.  Spel- 
man were  blessed  with  sufficient  length  of  years. 


192        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

Mrs.  Truspitt-Greene  had  disinterred  a  white  lace 
frock  of  another  historical  period,  which  clung  to  her 
as  if  shy  of  an  age  in  which  it  knew  it  had  no  right  to 
exist.  A  black  lace  hat  flopped  over  her  eyes,  render- 
ing necessary  a  continual  tossing  of  her  head,  as  if  she 
were  some  high-spirited  charger. 

Smith  was  recalled  from  his  contemplation  of  the 
pomp  and  fashion  of  Little  Bilstead  by  Eric  offering 
to  bowl  if  he  would  care  to  have  "a  knock." 

He  shook  his  head.  He  was  far  too  interested  in 
what  was  going  on  about  him,  apart  from  which  he  did 
not  wish  to  disillusion  Eric  who,  by  his  patronising 
manner,  made  it  clear  that,  whatever  he  may  have  said 
to  Marjorie,  he  was  convinced  that  the  "prod"  was  a 
"rabbit." 

As  Eric  was  in  second  wicket  down,  he  decided  that 
without  further  practice  (he  had  already  had  two 
lengthy  periods  that  morning)  he  was  in  danger  of 
growing  stale  and,  with  a  nod,  he  "buzzed  off,"  as  he 
phrased  it. 

Smith  saw  Willis  and  Mrs.  Higgs  talking  to  Mar- 
jorie, and,  fearful  of  Mrs.  Higgs's  demonstrativeness, 
and  of  her  nursery  recollections,  he  took  up  a  strategical 
position  behind  the  vicar. 

Presently  he  became  aware  that  Marjorie  was  ap- 
proaching, accompanied  by  Miss  Lipscombe.  She 
greeted  the  vicar  cordially;  but  when  she  turned  to 
Smith,  the  studied  calm  and  self-possession  which  he 
found  so  irritating  reasserted  itself. 

"Have  you  come  to  see  Little  Bilstead  win?"  he 
enquired. 

"Oh!     Do  you  think  we  shall?" 

In  a  flash  her  whole  expression  changed.    Her  eyes 


SMITH  BECOMES  A  POPULAR  HERO         193 

shone  with  excitement  and  she  clasped  her  hands  to- 
gether in  her  eagerness.  For  the  space  of  a  second 
Smith  saw  the  real  Marjorie,  then  once  more  the  mask 
descended,  and  she  became  the  girl  in  whom  dislike  was 
veiled  by  good-breeding. 

"We'll  have  a  jolly  good  try,  anyway,"  he  said 
grimly. 

A  new  idea  had  just  taken  possession  of  him.  If 
he  could  materially  assist  Little  Bilstead  in  vanquish- 
ing their  hated  rivals,  there  might  be  a  chance  of  earn- 
ing at  least  her  toleration  for  himself,  quite  apart  from 
the  sweetening  process  to  which  he  was  committed. 
Furthermore,  it  should  go  a  long  way  to  disprove  the 
claim  that  he  was  Alfred  Warren.  A  man  could  not 
learn  cricket  by  means  of  a  Pelman  course. 

"I  hope  you  will  win,"  she  said.  "Eric  is  very 
keen  on  it,"  and  with  that  she  turned  to  the  vicar. 

Suddenly  a  hush  fell  upon  the  field,  and  Smith  saw 
the  two  captains  tossing  for  innings.  He  observed  a 
look  of  relief  on  the  home  captain's  features  as  the 
two  men  straightened  themselves  from  gazing  at  the 
penny  lying  on  the  ground. 

"That  means  that  they  take  first  knock,"  murmured 
the  vicar. 

In  local  cricket  circles  there  were  two  traditions  that 
dominated  all  others;  the  first  was  that  whoever  won 
the  toss  should  put  his  opponent  in  first,  irrespective 
of  the  state  of  the  wicket.  The  other  was  that  to  be 
deputed  as  long-stop  was  to  suffer  unthinkable  humilia- 
tion. To  have  suggested  to  Yardley,  the  Little  Bil- 
stead captain,  that  he  should  take  first  innings  would 
have  surprised  him  no  less  than  a  proposal  that  he 
should  play  in  a  fur-lined  overcoat. 


194        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

The  news  that  Dick  Yardley  had  won  the  toss  spread 
round  the  ground  like  a  flash.  Little  Bilstead  was 
delighted.  Cries  of  "Well  done,  bor!"  and  "Good 
old  Dick!"  rang  across  the  turf,  as  if  the  winning  of 
the  toss  were  due  to  skill  rather  than  chance. 

Slowly  the  members  of  the  home  team  dribbled  into 
the  field.  First  of  all  came  the  bowlers,  who,  taking  a 
stump  from  either  wicket,  placed  them  some  two  yards 
off  the  pitch,  and  proceeded  to  send  down  practice 
balls.  Smith  watched  this  ritual  with  interest. 

In  the  matter  of  dress,  the  Little  Bilstead  team  pre- 
sented a  motley  appearance.  Some  wore  dark  trousers 
and  white  flannel  shirts,  others  white  trousers  and  dark 
shirts;  some  sported  collars  and  waistcoats,  others 
waistcoats  without  collars. 

In  head-gear,  they  were  as  nondescript  as  in  other 
articles  of  attire,  soft  hats  and  cloth  caps  being  mostly 
in  evidence,  whilst  a  little  man  with  a  heavy  moustache 
sported  a  bowler. 

One  man  seemed  to  have  combined  the  seasons  in 
his  person,  for  above  his  white  flannelette  trousers  he 
wore  a  blue  and  orange  football  shirt,  and  the  heavy 
winteriness  of  his  boots  was  mitigated  by  the  summer 
lightness  of  his  straw  hat.  Several  of  the  players  had 
their  trousers  suspended  by  braces  instead  of  belts, 
and  one  had  elected  to  do  battle  in  white  running 
shorts. 

With  misgiving  Smith  watched  the  Little  Bilstead 
bowlers  as  they  sent  down  ball  after  ball.  It  was  poor 
stuff  of  dubious  length,  although  fairly  accurate  in 
direction. 

At  the  sight  of  the  white-clothed  umpires  walking 
slowly  towards  the  centre  of  the  field,  the  two  stumps 


195 

were  replaced,  and  Yardley  began  distributing  his  men 
to  their  appointed  positions,  a  thing  that  required  much 
shouting  and  waving  of  his  right  hand. 

The  umpires  placed  the  bails  upon  the  wickets,  took 
up  their  positions,  and  waited.  All  eyes  were  now 
turned  expectantly  towards  the  scoring-tent,  round 
which  were  grouped  the  Upper  Saxton^players.  Pres- 
ently two  detached  themselves  from  the  remainder 
and  walked  slowly  towards  the  centre  of  the  field. 

"Man  in!"  was  the  cry,  repeated  by  half-a-dozen 
voices. 

The  hour  of  drama  was  at  hand. 

Looking  painfully  nervous  and  self-conscious,  the 
two  batsmen  walked  slowly  towards  the  wickets;  one 
a  tall  cadaverous  man  with  unshaven  chin,  who  wore 
a  brown  pad  on  his  left  leg,  the  other  a  short  burly 
fellow  with  two  white  skeleton  pads  over  black  trousers. 

Amidst  a  hush  of  excitement,  the  man  with  the  skele- 
ton pads  took  "guard,"  and  then,  assuming  an  attitude 
entirely  devoid  of  ease  or  grace,  gazed  straight  in 
front  of  him. 

The  umpire  gave  the  word,  the  bowler  took  a  run, 
the  spectators  ceased  to  breathe,  and  the  first  ball  of 
the  match  was  bowled,  a  half-volley,  six  inches  outside 
the  off  stump.  It  was,  however,  the  first  ball  of  the 
match,  and  as  such  had  to  be  treated  with  respect.  The 
batsman  played  it  stiffly,  and  returned  to  his  original 
position. 

At  the  end  of  three  overs,  each  man  appeared  satis- 
fied that  he  had  played  himself  in,  thus  paying  tribute 
to  convention,  and  the  strained  and  awkward  set  of 
their  bodies  relaxed. 

The  man  with  the  skeleton  pads  opened  the  scoring 


196        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

by  pulling  a  woefully  short  ball  to  the  boundary,  this 
to  the  intense  joy  of  the  Upper  Saxtonians.  When  he 
repeated  the  stroke  off  the  next  ball,  the  yells  of  de- 
light were  deafening;  but  when  he  treated  yet  another 
ball  in  the  same  way,  Upper  Saxton  became  almost 
hysterical  with  joy.  For  them  the  match  was  already 
as  good  as  won. 

With  the  score  at  twenty,  Brown  Pad  skied  a  ball 
behind  the  wicket-keeper.  Smith  ran  in  from  long  leg, 
and  P.C.  Postle  ran  back,  hesitated,  then,  with  a  roar 
of  "I've  got  her,"  he  lurched  forward. 

The  next  the  crowd  saw  was  P.C.  Postle  sitting  on 
the  grass  rubbing  an  injured  shoulder,  and  abusing 
Smith  roundly  for  spoiling  his  catch. 

The  crowd  roared,  Upper  Saxton  with  delight,  Lit- 
tle Bilstead  with  anger.  Later  they  joined  together  in 
derision  of  Mist'  Alfred,  whom  they  held  responsible 
for  the  collision. 

From  then  on  Smith  became  the  butt  of  every  would- 
be  humourist.  Each  time  he  fielded  the  ball,  he  was  the 
recipient  of  loud  and  ironical  cheers.  If  it  were  skied, 
no  matter  in  what  direction,  the  Little  Bilstead  players 
were  exhorted  to  "Let  Mist'  Alfred  have  it." 

Little  Bilstead  remembered  it  against  Alfred  Warren 
that  in  the  past  he  had  never  sought  to  dissimulate  his 
contempt  for  field  sports.  They  saw  in  his  turning-out 
with  the  home  team  a  deliberate  effort  to  curry  public 
favour,  and  they  made  no  effort  to  disguise  their  con- 
tempt. 

The  score  mounted  rapidly,  the  man  with  the  brown 
pad  quickly  getting  going.  His  specialty  was  leg  hits. 
He  waited  patiently  until  the  ball  came  on  the  leg  side, 
then  he  promptly  whacked  it  round  to  the  boundary. 


SMITH  BECOMES  A  POPULAR  HERO         197 

The  Little  Bilstead  bowling  grew  erratic,  and  the 
wicket-keeper  became  demoralised  and  loudly  re- 
proached the  bowlers.  Bye  after  bye  was  scored  until, 
after  a  whispered  conversation  with  Yardley,  Smith 
displaced  long-stop,  with  the  result  that  one  source 
of  revenue  was  cut  off  from  the  Upper  Saxton  scoring- 
sheet. 

The  crowd  regarded  Smith's  new  position  as  a  re- 
buke, and  said  so. 

Fifty  was  hoisted  without  the  loss  of  a  wicket,  and 
pandemonium  broke  out. 

At  sixty-three  Brown  Pad  skied  a  ball  directly  over 
the  wicket-keeper's  head,  and  was  caught.  He  re- 
turned to  the  enclosure  with  the  proud  knowledge  that 
he  had  scored  twenty-three  towards  victory. 

The  next  man  in  was  the  Upper  Saxton  doctor,  who 
possessed  several  distinct  strokes.  He  was  a  man  of 
care  and  caution,  as  befitted  his  calling;  but  Skeleton 
Pads  continued  to  pull  merrily,  playing  every  unaca- 
demic  stroke  he  possessed.  Change  after  change  was 
tried  in  the  bowling,  which  appeared  to  be  tied  in  a 
very  ugly  knot. 

The  century  was  signalled,  and  Upper  Saxton  drank 
more  beer  and  shouted  more  hoarsely.  From  all  round 
the  ground  cheers  and  advice  were  offered  to  the  Little 
Bilstead  players.  There  was  neither  silence  nor  dignity 
about  Upper  Saxton  in  the  hour  of  victory. 

If  the  wicket-keeper  missed  a  ball,  he  was  told  to  get 
a  bag,  or  offered  the  loan  of  a  hat. 

There  was  among  the  Upper  Saxton  supporters  one 
man  possessed  of  a  voice  of  great  power  and  volume. 
He  was  evidently  regarded  as  the  supreme  wit  of  the 
assembly.  Time  after  time  he  boomed  his  sarcasms, 


198        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

or  mock  sympathy,  and  he  was  particularly  severe  upon 
Mist'  Alfred. 

"I  say,  bor,"  he  cried  at  last  to  Yardley.  "Why 
don't  you  put  Mist'  Alfred  on?" 

A  yell  of  joyous  laughter  burst  from  the  Upper  Sax- 
ton  supporters.  They  remembered  the  missed-catch, 
although  the  memory  was  dimmed  somewhat  by  the 
excellent  ground  fielding  of  Smith  at  long-stop. 

Yells  for  Mist'  Alfred  came  from  all  over  the  field. 
The  suggestion  had  gripped  hold  of  the  general  im- 
agination. 

For  a  moment  Yardley  seemed  to  hesitate,  his  brow 
corrugated  with  the  worry  of  impending  defeat.  The 
advice  had  come  just  as  the  last  ball  of  the  over  was 
being  bowled.  When  the  umpire  called  "Over,"  Smith 
walked  across  to  Yardley.  They  exchanged  a  few 
words  and  then,  to  the  surprise  of  every  one,  they  were 
seen  making  for  the  bowler's  wicket.  Here,  with  hand 
and  voice  Yardley  began  to  rearrange  the  field  as 
directed  by  Smith. 

In  their  astonishment  at  what  was  taking  place  the 
spectators  forgot  to  shout  and  jeer.  Man  after  man 
was  placed  behind  the  batsman's  wicket,  short  slip,  long 
slip,  cover  slip,  third  man,  extra  third  man  and,  most 
amazing  of  all,  Yardley  himself  went  long-stop,  and 
Yardley,  as  everybody  knew,  was  the  best  field  in  Little 
Bilstead. 

When  eventually  it  was  seen  that  only  two  men  be- 
sides the  bowler  were  in  front  of  the  batsman,  the  cries 
of  derision  burst  out  again  with  redoubled  force. 

"They're  all  going  the  same  way  home,"  cried  one. 

"They've  given  up  trying,"  said  another. 

"He's  going  to  bowl  for  catches,"  ventured  a  third. 


SMITH  BECOMES  A  POPULAR  HERO    199 

Never  before  had  Mist'  Alfred  bowled  in  the  annual 
cricket-match,  and  all  were  prepared  for  comedy,  if  not 
absolute  farce.  They  watched  eagerly  for  the  conven- 
tional ball  to  be  bowled  to  the  wicket-keeper  at  the  side 
of  the  pitch.  With  something  akin  to  astonishment, 
they  realised  that  Mist'  Alfred  intended  to  dispense 
with  this  preliminary,  and  the  Upper  Saxton  supporters 
were  reassured,  knowing  that  no  bowler  worthy  of  his 
salt  could  afford  to  dispense  with  this  time-honoured 
precaution  against  an  erratic  first  ball.  Had  not  Arm- 
strong himself  hallowed  the  cuctom,  and  in  a  Test 
Match  too? 

In  the  enclosure  the  excitement  was  no  less  great 
than  round  the  ground,  although  less  energetically  ex- 
pressed. In  the  centre  of  the  vicar's  pale  cheeks  were 
two  carmine  spots,  giving  him  the  appearance  of  having 
been  rouged.  He  was  breathing  in  little  sobs,  and  Miss 
Lipscombe  was  watching  him  anxiously. 

He  read  Smith's  placing  of  the  field  as  Belshazzar 
of  old  had  read  the  writing  on  the  wall. 

Marjorie's  lower  lip  had  disappeared,  gripped  by  a 
row  of  very  small  and  very  white  teeth. 

Miss  Mary  Jell  wanted  to  cry,  whereas  Mrs.  Spel- 
man  felt  she  must  shriek. 

Three  times  Miss  Jell  opened  and  closed  her  sun- 
shade, the  third  time  tipping  Colonel  Enderby's  Pan- 
ama over  his  eyes,  and  an  exclamation  from  his  lips. 

Miss  Marshall  felt  sick.  It  was  a  weakness  which, 
as  a  child,  had  caused  her  to  receive  few  invitations  to 
parties,  and  never  twice  to  the  same  house. 

Never  had  Little  Bilstead  society  found  self-control 
so  difficult  to  preserve. 

An    uncanny    silence    descended    upon    the    crowd. 


200        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

Slowly  Smith  walked  some  eight  paces  beyond  the 
wicket,  whilst  the  spectators  held  their  breath. 

Then  something  seemed  to  happen.  Without  a 
pause  he  span  round  and  appeared  to  shoot  towards 
the  wicket.  There  was  a  sharp  click.  P.C.  Postle  fell 
over  backwards,  and  the  man  with  the  skeleton  pads 
stood  regarding  his  middle  stump  where  no  middle 
stump  should  be,  some  nine  yards  from  its  fellows, 
whilst  Smith  was  walking  slowly  back  to  the  bowler's 
wicket. 

For  a  moment  the  crowd  seemed  to  have  lost  the 
power  of  speech.  Into  the  vicar's  throat  there  sprang 
something  that  caused  him  to  swallow  hurriedly.  The 
Miss  Jells  looked  at  one  another,  interrogation  in  their 
eyes.  Colonel  Enderby  swore,  whilst  Mr.  Marshall, 
who  had  paused  in  the  act  of  biting  an  egg-and-cress 
sandwich,  gazed  at  the  broken  wicket,  a  fringe  of  green 
threads  dangling  from  his  lower  lip. 

Then  pandemonium  broke  out.  Yells,  cries,  and 
cat-calls  sounded  from  all  over  the  field.  Yardley 
smiled  for  the  first  time  during  the  last  hour. 

"You're  out,"  cried  the  umpire  to  the  man  with  the 
skeleton  pads,  as  if  to  remove  from  his  mind  any  linger- 
ing doubt  that  might  lurk  there. 

Having  apparently  concluded  his  contemplation  of 
the  errant  middle  stump,  Skeleton  Pads  slowly  turned 
and  walked  towards  the  scoring-tent,  whilst  members 
of  the  Little  Bilstead  team  grouped  themselves  round 
Smith. 

"Well  done,  Mist'  Alfred." 

"Well  done,  bor." 

"Has  any  one  seen  the  middle  stump?" 

Cries  echoed  and  re-echoed  from  all  parts  of  the  field. 
Little  Bilstead  was  coming  into  its  own. 


SMITH  BECOMES  A  POPULAR  HERO    201 

The  man  with  the  booming  voice,  who  had  advised 
the  putting  on  of  Mist'  Alfred  to  bowl,  now  became  the 
centre  of  virulent  reproach  from  the  supporters  of 
Upper  Saxton. 

From  the  direction  of  the  scoring-tent,  the  new  bats- 
man moved  reluctantly  towards  the  wicket,  which  had 
been  restored.  It  was  easy  to  see  that  he  was  a  beaten 
man,  even  before  he  reached  the  field  of  battle. 

Cries  of  "Man  in  I"  were  raised  and,  amid  booms  of 
derision  and  counter-hoots  of  delight,  the  Little  Bil- 
stead  team  resumed  their  positions. 

The  umpire  gave  "guard"  to  a  quaking  little  bats- 
man, who  seemed  to  wish  himself  anywhere  but  where 
he  was.  Smith  again  walked  his  eight  slow,  deliberate 
steps  beyond  the  wicket,  span  round,  and  hurtled 
towards  the  terrified  batsman. 

At  the  sight  of  Smith  tearing  towards  him,  the  little 
man  shut  his  eyes  and  withdrew  his  body  as  much  as 
possible  from  the  bat. 

Click !  This  time  the  wicket-keeper  did  not  fall  over, 
he  dodged.  Without  so  much  as  a  glance  at  his  demol- 
ished stumps,  the  new  batsman  trotted  placidly  towards 
the  scoring-tent,  thankful  that  his  limbs  were  intact. 

Once  more  Little  Bilstead  gave  full  voice  to  its  en- 
thusiasm. Men  laughed  and  shouted,  girls  shrilled 
and  capered,  whilst  any  one  who  was  fortunate  to 
possess  an  instrument  capable  of  producing  a  noise, 
either  blew,  struck,  or  rattled  it  to  the  stretch  of  his 
powers. 

One  man  with  a  bugle  went  almost  purple  in  the  face 
through  striving  to  combine  the  more  potent  qualities 
of  the  Reveille  with  the  Last  Post. 

In  the  enclosure  the  excitement  was  almost  as  great, 
although  continuing  to  manifest  itself  with  more  re- 


202        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

straint  and  decorum;  for  social  Little  Bilstead  was 
social  Little  Bilstead  through  and  through.  Miss  Jell 
clapped  her  lace-gloved  hands  several  times  with  Vic- 
torian refinement,  whilst  Miss  Mary,  with  flushed 
cheeks  and  eyes  unusually  bright,  struck  her  palms  to- 
gether until  they  ached. 

Mrs.  Spelman's  new  toque  had  taken  a  pronounced 
list  to  starboard,  as  a  result  of  her  enthusiasm,  and  even 
Mrs.  Truspitt-Greene  had  softened  in  the  hour  of  what 
all  regarded  as  an  approaching  triumph  for  Little  Bil- 
stead; for  she  had  compromised  with  fashion  by  tilting 
back  her  hat  to  the  extent  of  enabling  her  to  obtain  an 
uninterrupted  view  of  the  game  without  those  constant 
tossings  which  made  her  head  ache. 

Marjorie  sat  with  hands  clasped  and  shining  eyes, 
her  lips  slightly  parted.  The  dramatic  change  in  the 
fortunes  of  Little  Bilstead  had  thrilled  her.  At  that 
moment,  with  all  the  casuistry  of  a  woman,  she  had 
either  forgotten  or  forgiven  the  delinquencies  of  the 
man  in  the  triumph  of  the  cricketer. 

"Splendid !  Splendid !"  murmured  the  vicar,  as  he 
sat  with  his  delicate  blue-veined  hands  clasped  above 
his  walking  stick.  "I  suspected  it,"  he  murmured,  "I 
suspected  it." 

Colonel  Enderby  scowled  and  muttered  to  himself. 
He  had  endeavoured  to  engage  Mr.  Marshall  in  an 
anti-hero-worship  campaign;  but  Mr.  Marshall  was  in 
the  process  of  realising  that  in  supreme  moments 
human  nature  is  incapable  of  realising  more  than  one 
sense  at  a  time.  Everywhere  about  him  lay  eatables 
and  drink  that  were  good  to  the  palate;  but  there  were 
none  to  ask  him  to  partake.  All  eyes  were  rivetted 
upon  the  cricket-pitch,  all  eyes,  that  is  except  those  of 


SMITH  BECOMES  A  POPULAR  HERO         203 

Mr.  Marshall,  which  roved  from  basket  to  neglected 
basket. 

Eric  Stannard  could  not  resist  a  hand-wave  to  Mar- 
jorie,  followed  by  a  little  caper  of  ecstasy — there  are 
emotional  flaws  even  in  the  social  armour  of  the  public 
schoolboy. 

The  incoming  batsman  managed  to  put  off  the  evil 
moment  by  keeping  his  bat  rigidly  in  the  hole  he  had 
dug  for  it;  but  the  next  ball  seemed  to  get  round  the 
bat.  In  any  case  his  off-stump  was  sent  somersaulting 
out  of  the  ground. 

When  the  over  was  completed,  Smith's  analysis  read 
three  wickets  for  no  runs.  So  demoralised  had  the 
Upper  Saxton  batting  become,  that  only  two  runs  were 
scored  from  the  bowler  at  the  other  end,  who  had 
hitherto  been  unmercifully  punished. 

In  his  next  three  overs,  Smith  concluded  the  Upper 
Saxton  innings,  the  total  being  126. 

As  the  last  wicket  fell,  the  excitement  of  the  Little 
Bilstead  supporters  could  not  be  restrained.  Like  a 
football  crowd  dissatisfied  with  the  umpire's  decision, 
they  streamed  across  the  field,  shouting  and  yelling, 
whilst  from  all  sides  came  the  cry  "Good  on  you,  Mist' 
Alfred !  Give  'em  cosh !" 

With  difficulty  Smith  made  his  way  through  the 
crowd,  receiving  congratulations  in  the  form  of  hand- 
shakes, blows  upon  the  back,  and  shouts  in  his  ear. 
Little  Bilstead  was  pleased  with  itself  and  its  hero. 

At  length  he  forced  a  passage  through  the  cheering 
mass,  and  sought  shelter  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the 
scorers'  tent.  Here  he  found  Marjorie,  the  vicar,  and 
Eric. 

"Here  he  is,"  cried  Eric. 


204        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

Smith  was  startled  at  the  change  in  Marjorie.  Her 
cheeks  were  slightly  flushed,  and  her  eyes  were  dancing 
with  excitement.  If  she  had  been  beautiful  before,  he 
decided,  she  was  ravishing  now  in  her  white  frock  and 
the  large  straw  hat  that  shaded  her  face. 

For  the  first  time  she  smiled  up  at  him,  and  that 
smile  definitely  sealed  the  fate  of  Upper  Saxton. 

"Splendid!"  murmured  the  vicar,  in  a  husky  voice, 
as  he  gripped  Smith's  hand.  "Splendid !  I  have  never 
seen  finer  bowling  in  my  life.  What  do  you  think  of  it, 
Yardley?"  he  enquired,  as  he  beamed  upon  the  captain 
of  Little  Bilstead,  who  had  approached  the  group. 

"Wouldn't  Mist'  Alfred  captain  the  team,  sir?"  he 
enquired,  looking  anxiously  towards  Smith. 

"No,  no,  Yardley,"  said  Smith.  "You've  done  very 
well,  and  you're  going  to  show  us  how  to  beat  them." 

Yardley  shook  his  head  despondently — he  knew  the 
strength  of  the  Upper  Saxton  bowling. 

"Will  you  go  in  first,  sir?"  he  enquired. 

"No,  put  me  down  third  or  fourth  wicket  down, 
Yardley,  that'll  do,"  said  Smith. 

"Wouldn't  it  be  better  to  go  in  a  little  earlier?"  sug- 
gested the  vicar,  as  Yardley  made  his  way  through  the 
throng.  "We've  got  a  very  bad  tail,"  he  added. 

"So  I  hear,"  smiled  Smith.  "Like  an  English  Test 
Team.  No,  leave  me  where  I  said." 

Luncheon  was  taken  at  the  conclusion  of  the  Upper 
Saxton  innings.  All  round  the  ground  people  seated 
themselves  in  little  groups,  and  proceeded  to  unpack 
parcels  and  hampers,  which  mostly  took  the  form  of 
cardboard  boxes,  string  bags,  or  small  Japanese 
baskets. 

From  Miss  Lipscombe  Smith  had  learned  that  the 


SMITH  BECOMES  A  POPULAR  HERO         205 

luncheon  was  looked  upon  by  the  players  as  by  no  means 
the  least  important  item  in  the  day's  proceedings. 

The  match  had  originated  as  a  half-day  affair;  but 
the  vicar  had  thought  it  would  be  more  pleasant  to 
make  a  whole-day  match  of  it,  and  when  played  at 
Little  Bilstead,  he  had  undertaken  to  entertain  the 
rival  teams  at  luncheon,  which  was  served  in  a  marquee 
erected  on  the  field. 

The  first  whole-day  match  had  been  fraught  with 
disastrous  results  as  far  as  sport  was  concerned.  The 
vicar  had  generously  provided  wine  and  beer  at 
luncheon,  with  the  result  that  the  subsequent  cricket 
deteriorated  to  such  a  degree  that  the  match  had  ended 
in  a  draw,  from  the  sheer  inability  of  the  players  to 
continue. 

For  one  thing  the  umpires,  mellowed  by  some  ex- 
tremely good  port,  had  refused  to  give  any  one  out, 
exhorting  the  fielding  side  to  "give  him  another  chance, 
together,"  a  circumstance  which  had  seriously  compro- 
mised the  interest  of  the  game. 

From  that  day  on,  only  temperance  drinks  were  pro- 
vided, Miss  Lipscombe  had  seen  to  that,  and  care  was 
taken  that  the  viands  should  be  light  in  character,  lest 
the  umpires  be  tempted  to  sleep  at  their  posts. 

For  the  next  hour  the  crowd,  unconstrained  by  any 
such  responsibility  as  that  resting  on  the  players, 
feasted  joyously,  pledging  one  another  in  beer  and 
cider  and,  above  all,  pledging  the  return  of  the  prodi- 
gal, Mist'  Alfred.  There  was  some  wonder  at  this 
sudden  transformation  of  one  who  had  always  been 
something  of  a  joke  in  the  matter  of  sport;  but  there 
was  no  time  for  analysis.  A  few  of  the  more  thought- 
ful, however,  were  inclined  to  accept  Smith's  statement 


206        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

that  he  was  not  Alfred  Warren,  and  the  few  were  those 
who  knew  that  cricketers  are  not  made. 

When  at  length  a  movement  was  observed  at  the 
entrance  of  the  tent,  a  murmur  of  "Here  they  come !" 
ran  from  mouth  to  mouth.  Baskets  and  bags  were  re- 
packed, bottles  thrown  over  hedges,  crumbs  dusted 
from  clothes,  and  all  prepared  themselves  for  what 
they  were  convinced  would  be  an  afternoon  of  intense 
excitement. 

The  same  preliminaries  were  gone  through  as  had 
heralded  the  Upper  Saxton  innings.  Smith  stood  by 
the  vicar,  watching  the  Upper  Saxtonians  getting  them- 
selves into  form  with  the  ball. 

"That,"  said  the  vicar,  pointing  out  a  man  with 
black  leather  boots,  white  flannelette  trousers,  a  waist- 
coat and  a  collar  and  tie,  "is  Marsh.  He  is  a  grievous 
thorn  in  our  flesh." 

At  that  moment,  Marsh  delivered  a  ball  which  lifted 
the  single  stump  out  of  the  ground,  to  the  obvious  de- 
light of  the  Upper  Saxton  supporters. 

"Good  length,"  remarked  Smith. 

"Yes,"  murmured  the  vicar  despondently,  as  if  re- 
calling past  tragedies.  "A  determined  man;  but  easily 
flurried.  Resistance  seems  to  excite  him,  and  he  gets 
woefully  short." 

Smith  made  a  mental  note  of  Marsh's  limitations. 

The  opening  of  the  Little  Bilstead  innings  was 
almost  as  sensational  as  the  close  of  that  of  Upper 
Saxton.  With  his  first  ball  Marsh  made  a  sorry  mess 
of  the  wicket  of  Herbert  Painter,  the  steadiest  bat  in 
the  Little  Bilstead  team.  Three  balls  later  he  caught 
and  bowled  P.C.  Postle.  With  the  last  ball  of  the  over 
Marsh  spread-eagled  Eric's  wicket.  Thus  three 


SMITH  BECOMES  A  POPULAR  HERO         207 

wickets  were  down  and  no  runs.  From  the  other  end 
Yardley,  who  had  gone  in  first,  viewed  with  consterna- 
tion the  downfall  of  his  stalwarts. 

The  Upper  Saxton  portion  of  the  crowd  had  en- 
tirely regained  its  good  humour  and  high  spirits.  Vic- 
tory they  now  felt  was  assured.  The  man  with  the 
booming  voice  once  more  gave  tongue  with  comment 
and  criticism.  The  ecstasy  of  the  Little  Bilstead  fac- 
tion had  died  down  to  murmurs  of  apprehension :  some 
saw  the  certainty  of  a  single  innings  defeat;  others 
wondered  if  it  would  be  possible  to  play  out  time. 

"Wny  don't  you  send  Mist'  Alfred  in?"  boomed  the 
Upper  Saxton  critic  and,  as  if  in  answer  to  the  sug- 
gestion, Smith  was  seen  walking  slowly  towards  the 
wicket.  As  if  by  magic  the  spirits  of  the  Little  Bil- 
stead supporters  rose,  and  they  cheered  their  champion 
to  the  echo. 

As  he  approached  the  wicket  adjusting  his  gloves, 
Yardley  came  to  meet  him.  For  a  moment  the  two 
walked  side  by  side  in  conversation,  then  they  parted 
to  take  up  their  respective  positions. 

As  Yardley  took  guard,  a  breathless  hush  seemed  to 
descend  upon  the  field.  Every  movement  of  the  players 
was  watched  with  feverish  anxiety.  The  vicar  found 
it  impossible  to  keep  his  hands  still.  Colonel  Enderby 
played  with  the  bottom  button  of  his  Zingari  blazer 
until  Miss  Jell  felt  that  she  must  grip  his  hand  to  keep 
him  quiet.  Marjorie  gazed  at  the  nondescript  group 
of  men  with  strained  and  shining  eyes. 

In  the  hearts  of  all  there  was  a  dread  of  disaster. 
The  bowler  walked  from  the  wicket,  and  took  a  short 
run.  There  was  a  mellow  sound  of  leather  hitting 
wood,  and  Little  Bilstead  drew  its  breath  again. 


208        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

Yardley  had  played  the  ball  with  a  straight  and  de- 
termined bat.  The  second  and  third  he  treated  in  the 
same  manner,  the  fourth  he  placed  between  cover-point 
and  mid-off,  opening  the  score  with  a  two.  The  Little 
Bilstead  supporters  opened  their  throats  with  encour- 
aging shouts,  convinced  that  the  "rot"  had  been 
stopped.  Yardley  played  the  last  two  balls  of  the  over 
in  steady  and  confident  style. 

The  dramatic  moment  of  the  match  had  arrived. 
How  would  Mist'  Alfred  shape  before  Dick  Marsh? 
was  the  question  all  were  asking  themselves. 

Very  deliberately  Smith  glanced  round  to  see  how 
the  field  was  placed.  Walking  some  three  yards  up  the 
pitch,  he  removed  a  small  piece  of  turf  that  had  been 
kicked  up  by  Yardley's  heavy  heel. 

"Don't  you  worry,  Mist'  Alfred,"  boomed  the  voice 
of  the  Upper  Saxton  critic.  "You  won't  be  there 
long,  bor." 

As  Marsh  took  his  run  there  was  a  quick  indrawing 
of  breath  among  the  spectators.  The  ball  left  the 
bowler's  hand  and,  a  moment  later,  passed  low  on  the 
ground  to  the  right  of  cover-point. 

"Run!"  yelled  the  crowd;  but  Smith's  warning  left 
hand  was  raised,  and  Yardley  returned  to  his  crease. 
Smith  was  not  going  to  take  the  risk  of  putting  Yardley 
up  against  Marsh.  The  second  and  third  balls  he 
placed  in  exactly  the  same  position  as  the  first.  Marsh 
altered  the  position  of  cover-point,  with  the  result  that 
the  next  ball  passed  over  the  spot  from  which  cover- 
point  had  been  removed.  Marsh  motioned  cover-point 
back  to  his  original  position. 

The  fifth  ball  Smith  treated  as  he  had  treated  the 
first  three.  The  crowd  began  to  laugh.  A  frown  set- 


SMITH  BECOMES  A  POPULAR  HERO         209 

tied  upon  Marsh's  features.  The  last  ball  of  the  over 
also  passed  to  the  right  of  cover-point,  and  Smith's 
hand  beckoned  the  expectant  Yardley.  A  shout  of 
laughter  broke  from  the  Little  Bilstead  spectators. 
Mist'  Alfred's  strategy  had  become  clear  to  all. 

They  were  too  excited  to  marvel  at  what  was  taking 
place. 

"Another  over  like  that,"  murmured  the  vicar,  un- 
steadily to  Marjorie,  "and  Marsh  will  go  to  pieces. 
Beautiful  placing,"  he  murmured. 

Marjorie  gave  him  a  swift  little  smile,  and  her  eyes 
returned  to  the  players. 

Smith  took  guard  at  the  other  end,  and  once  more 
looked  deliberately  round  the  field.  The  new  bowler 
appeared  uncomfortable.  Mentally  he  was  arguing 
that  if  the  batsman  could  do  what  he  liked  with  Marsh, 
what  was  to  happen  to  him? 

Smith  soon  removed  any  doubt  from  his  mind  by 
driving  him  hard  to  the  off-boundary,  just  past  cover- 
point.  Marsh  brought  mid-on  over  to  extra  cover- 
point.  The  next  ball  was  sent  at  express  speed  directly 
over  the  spot  that  mid-on  had  vacated,  and  two  runs 
were  scored. 

The  Little  Bilstead  crowd  roared  its  delight.  The 
comedy  taking  place  before  them  they  appreciated  to 
its  full  extent.  When  Marsh  motioned  mid-on  back  to 
his  original  position,  they  shouted  their  derision. 

The  bowler  became  nervous.  As  if  to  complete  his 
demoralisation,  Smith  lifted  his  next  ball  clean  out  of 
the  field,  amidst  a  perfect  tornado  of  applause.  From 
the  last  ball  of  the  over  he  scored  a  single. 

Again  the  spectators  held  their  breath.  Once  more 
the  champions  were  opposed.  Four  times  Smith  drove 


210        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

the  ball  just  out  of  cover-point's  reach;  but  refused  to 
run.  The  fifth  ball  of  the  over  was  short.  He  drove  it 
hard  to  the  boundary.  From  the  sixth  he  took  a  single. 
The  score  had  now  reached  twenty  for  three  wickets. 

"I  think  that  settles  Marsh,"  said  the  vicar  with  a 
sigh  of  content. 

To  Yardley's  face  there  had  returned  the  good- 
humoured  smile  it  habitually  wore.  He  felt  that  Little 
Bilstead  still  possessed  a  sporting  chance.  From  the 
next  over  Smith  gathered  sixteen  runs,  and  from 
Marsh's  third  over  nine.  The  hopes  of  the  home  sup- 
porters ran  high. 

Slowly  the  score  mounted,  50,  60,  70.  Yardley  was 
doing  his  share  now,  and  the  two  men  were  running 
every  short  run  they  could  possibly  gather,  demoralis- 
ing the  fielding  side  into  wild  returns  and  consequent 
overthrows.  Change  after  change  was  tried  in  the 
bowling.  Marsh  crossed  to  the  other  end;  but  still  the 
score  mounted. 

At  85  Yardley  failed  properly  to  get  hold  of  a  ball 
and  was  caught  by  mid-off,  having  played  a  patient 
and  valuable  innings  of  fourteen.  As  he  returned  to 
the  scoring-tent,  many  of  the  spectators  streamed  out 
to  meet  him,  and  with  much  patting  on  the  back  and 
congratulation  he  was  escorted  back  to  where  the 
other  members  of  the  team  were  grouped. 

"Forty-two  to  win,"  muttered  the  vicar,  "and  a  tail 
like  nothing  in  Wisden." 

"We  shall  do  it,"  cried  Marjorie.  "I  know  we  shall 
— we  must";  but  the  vicar  shook  a  doubtful  head. 

Throwing  down  his  bat,  Yardley  proceeded  to  give 
careful  and  elaborate  instructions  to  the  in-going  bats- 
man, with  the  result  that  he  reduced  him  to  a  pathetic 


SMITH  BECOMES  A  POPULAR  HERO         211 

state  of  nervousness.  He  was  a  man  on  whose  shoul- 
ders the  fate  of  empires  was  never  intended  to  rest. 
After  one  ball  from  Marsh  he  returned  with  a  silly 
grin  upon  his  face,  and  in  his  ears  the  shouts  of  jubila- 
tion of  Upper  Saxton. 

With  successive  balls  Marsh  dismissed  two  more  of 
his  opponents,  thus  performing  the  hat  trick  and  dis- 
proving the  vicar's  prophecy.  Dr.  Crane  was  one  of 
his  victims.  Smith  decided  that  he  handled  a  bat  less 
like  a  hockey-stick  than  a  scythe. 

Eighty-five  for  seven. 

Shouts  echoed  from  all  parts  of  the  field.  He  of  the 
booming  voice  seemed  to  awaken  as  from  a  long  slum- 
ber. Upper  Saxton  had  taken  heart,  victory  seemed 
once  more  within  its  grasp. 

"If  you  get  bowled  first  ball,  I'll  punch  your  head," 
cried  Yardley  tensely  to  Tom  Bassingthwaighte,  the 
postman. 

Thus  fortified,  Tom  Bassingthwaighte  made  his  way 
to  the  field  of  glory.  He  was  not  of  a  bellicose  disposi- 
tion; but  there  had  been  in  his  skipper's  voice  that  which 
carried  conviction. 

He  proceeded  to  the  wicket  at  an  ambling  trot,  as  if 
anxious  to  get  through  the  ordeal  as  quickly  as  possible. 
Having  taken  guard,  he  gazed  before  him  as  one  hyp- 
notised. He  saw  Dick  Marsh  turn  away  and  walk 
from  him.  A  moment  later  the  ball  seemed  to  be 
hurtling  through  the  air  towards  him,  as  if  bent  on  his 
destruction. 

With  Yardley's  threats  still  ringing  in  his  ears  Tom 
Bassingthwaighte  kept  his  bat  rigidly  pressed  to  the 
ground.  The  ball  hit  the  outer  edge  and  went  off  at  a 
tangent  well  out  of  reach  of  short  slip.  The  batsman 


212        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

stood  looking  stupidly  in  the  direction  taken  by  the 
ball.  He  was  awakened  to  realities  by  a  yell  from 
Smith,  bidding  him  run.  He  ran.  It  was  not  until  he 
was  back  at  his  own  crease  that  he  realised  he  had 
scored  two. 

"Over!" 

Little  Bilstead  breathed  again,  now  that  Smith  had 
the  bowling. 

The  first  ball,  a  half  volley,  he  lifted  clean  out  of  the 
ground,  the  second  he  placed  round  to  leg  for  four,  the 
third  he  drove  for  a  like  number,  the  fourth  he  lifted 
over  the  bowler's  head  to  the  boundary,  the  fifth  ball 
he  left  alone,  and  the  sixth  he  drove  to  the  on  for  an 
easy  one.  For  some  reason  best  known  to  himself, 
Bassingthwaighte  hesitated,  then  starting  to  run,  he 
crossed  Smith,  turned,  and  doubled  back  to  his  own 
crease  like  a  frightened  rabbit. 

"Get  back,  you  silly  ass!"  roared  Smith;  but  nothing 
could  persuade  the  little  man  to  forsake  his  own  crease, 
for  was  not  the  ball  on  its  way  to  the  other  wicket? 

A  roar  of  triumph  went  up  as  the  wicket-keeper 
whipped  off  the  bails;  many  thinking  that  it  was  Smith 
who  had  been  run  out.  The  cheers  subsided  when  they 
saw  Bassingthwaighte  walking  dejectedly  towards  the 
scoring-tent,  to  be  met  half-way  by  Yardley,  who,  with 
passionate  and  intimidating  movement,  was  conveying 
to  the  unhappy  man  his  views  upon  fools  and  "numb- 
skulls." 

"One  hundred  and  five  for  eight  wickets.  We  shall 
never  do  it,"  murmured  the  vicar.  "The  two  last  men 
can  never  stand  six  balls  from  Marsh." 

Smith  walked  towards  the  incoming  batsman. 

"Now  listen!"  he  murmured,  on  reaching  his  side. 


SMITH  BECOMES  A  POPULAR  HERO         213 

"When  I  beckon,  you  run.  Don't  stop  to  think;  but  run 
like  hell.  If  you  don't  I'll— I'll  kill  you,"  and  with 
that  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  walked  back  to  his  own 
wicket. 

The  new  man,  Charlie  Jackson,  an  inoffensive  little 
man  who  acted  as  odd  man  to  any  and  everybody  in 
Little  Bilstead,  had  watched  with  admiration  Bassing- 
thwaighte's  strategy  and  had  determined  to  emulate  it. 
With  figure  braced  and  bat  held  firmly  to  the  ground 
he  waited  the  onset  of  the  first  ball.  It  struck  the  bat 
full  in  the  centre  and  re-bounded  half-way  up  the  pitch. 

From  his  self-gratulation  he  was  roused  by  a  terrific 
yell  to  run.  He  ran,  blindly  and  madly.  Marsh  and 
the  wicket-keeper  also  ran,  likewise  point,  cover-point 
and  mid-on.  Suddenly  in  the  middle  of  the  pitch  there 
seemed  to  be  a  crowd  of  players ;  but  Jackson  had  scored 
a  run  and  Smith  had  got  the  bowling. 

A  roar  passed  round  the  ground  like  a  cyclone.  For 
one  short  moment  Charlie  Jackson  had  become  a  hero. 
Smith's  face  had  lost  the  tenseness  that  had  character- 
ised it  during  the  previous  few  minutes,  and  he  pro- 
ceeded to  prove  conclusively  that  if  the  game  were 
won,  it  would  be  through  that  single  scored  by  Charlie 
Jackson.  Three  fours  and  a  one  brought  the  score 
up  to  119. 

As  the  players  changed  over,  the  excitement  became 
almost  intolerable.  Marsh  was  again  the  bowler.  He 
was  very  white,  and  the  perspiration  stood  out  in  little 
beads  upon  his  forehead. 

"Give  him  cosh,  bor,"  boomed  the  Upper  Saxton 
supporter  with  the  megaphone  voice,  as  Marsh  walked 
from  the  wicket. 

Ball  after  ball  Smith  played  with  care  and  respect; 


214        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

the  fourth,  however,  was  short,  and  he  drove  it  to  the 
on  for  two,  bringing  the  score  to  121.  The  spectators 
held  their  breath.  The  next  ball  also  yielded  two. 

Marsh  gathered  himself  together  for  a  final  effort. 
If  he  could  prevent  Smith  from  scoring,  there  was  still 
a  chance  for  Upper  Saxton  to  win.  In  an  endeavour 
to  get  additional  pace  on  the  ball  he  added  a  yard  to 
his  run. 

The  ball  pitched  short. 

There  was  a  sharp  crack,  a  terrific  yell,  and  Marsh 
knew  that  Smith  had  scored  a  boundary  and  won  the 
match. 

Then  the  crowd  seemed  to  go  mad.  Men  yelled, 
girls  danced,  fights  broke  out. 

The  next  over  accounted  for  the  two  remaining  bats- 
men. 

Little  Bilstead  had  won  by  a  single  run ! 

At  the  "click"  which  told  of  the  fall  of  the  last 
wicket,  the  crowd  surged  across  the  field.  Smith  felt 
himself  seized  by  many  hands  that  endeavoured  to 
hoist  him  upon  as  many  different  shoulders. 

He  was  deafened  by  the  noise,  bruised  by  the  rough 
handling  he  was  receiving,  and  he  was  very  thirsty. 

Eventually,  in  a  position  of  extreme  discomfort,  He 
was  carried  towards  the  scoring-tent,  where  he  learned 
that  his  individual  score  was  99  not  out. 

Out  from  the  surge  of  many  impressions,  people 
wringing  his  hands,  hitting  him  on  the  back,  com- 
miserating with  him  on  not  having  reached  a  century, 
a  perfect  babel  of  nothingnesses,  came  the  picture  of 
Marjorie  clapping  her  hands,  her  hair  disordered,  her 
face  flushed.  He  experienced  a  strange  sensation  as  if 
all  his  muscles  had  suddenly  relaxed. 

Everybody  was  talking  at  once,  and  every  word  in 


SMITH  BECOMES  A  POPULAR  HERO         215 

praise  of  Smith's  play.  Such  cricket  had  never  been 
seen  in  either  Little  Bilstead  or  Upper  Saxton.  It  was 
a  match  that  would  go  down  to  posterity  as  the  greatest 
in  the  history  of  the  county. 

Every  one  strove  to  get  a  closer  view  of  the  hero  of 
the  hour.  The  girls  told  one  another  how  handsome 
he  was,  with  his  curly  fair  hair  and  bronzed  features; 
whilst  the  men,  remembering  what  he  had  done,  re- 
frained from  criticism,  which,  in  reality,  would  have 
been  self-defence. 

The  vicar  was  mopping  his  eyes  with  a  coloured 
handkerchief,  pretending  a  fly  was  the  cause  of  the  un- 
usual moisture.  Miss  Jell  was  actually  cordial,  whilst 
Miss  Mary  never  afterwards  was  able  to  explain  how 
it  came  about  that  her  sister  found  her  clutching  Smith's 
left  shin,  as  he  struggled  to  preserve  a  position  that 
would  at  least  ensure  his  head  being  not  lower  than 
his  feet. 

Mrs.  Spelman's  toque  was  resting  on  her  right 
shoulder.  Mrs.  Truspitt-Greene's  millinery  now  sat 
on  her  head  like  the  straw  hat  of  a  stage  Jack  Tar, 
whilst  Mrs.  Crane  was  crying  softly  to  herself — Mrs. 
Crane  always  cried  on  occasions  of  great  emotional 
tension. 

Colonel  Enderby  had  gone  home,  and  at  that  mo- 
ment was  mixing  a  whisky-and-soda  with  Hindustani 
oaths;  whilst  Mr.  Marshall  had  seized  the  moment  of 
excitement  to  do  a  little  scavenging  on  his  own  account, 
with  the  result  that  he  succeeded  in  acquiring  a  cheese- 
cake minus  one  bite,  an  apple,  a  piece  of  cake,  two 
tomatoes,  and  three  sandwiches,  a  little  curled  at  the 
edges.  Later  he  had  to  confess  to  himself  that  he  had 
seldom  done  so  well  at  a  cricket  match. 

Apart  from  the  discomfort  of  having  each  limb  in 


216       THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

the  charge  of  a  different  section  of  the  crowd,  Smith 
was  gravely  concerned  as  to  the  probable  effect  of  such 
robustiousness  upon  "Gents'  Superfine  Unshrinkable 
Flans." 

When  at  length  he  managed  to  free  himself  from 
the  embarrassing  attentions  of  cheering  Little  Bil- 
steadians,  and  assume  an  upright  position  upon  his  feet, 
it  was  to  find  himself  gazing  down  at  Eric's  flushed  face. 

UI  say,  you're  the  giddy  limit,"  he  cried. 

Smith,  however,  did  not  hear.  He  was  looking 
about  for  Marjorie;  but  she  had  gone.  At  that  mo- 
ment she  was  sitting  at  her  bedroom  window,  gazing 
out  at  the  gently  swaying  trees,  wondering  why  she  had 
come  away  so  suddenly  and  what  people  would  think. 

She  had  experienced  the  sensations  of  "The  Hosts 
of  Tuscany,"  and  had  fled  from  the  temptation  to 
cheer  the  enemy. 


FROM  the  hour  that  Smith  won  the  cricket  match 
against  Upper  Saxton  Little  Bilstead  became  a 
village  divided  against  itself. 

The  sporting  section  of  the  community,  and  Little 
Bilstead  was  intensely  sporting  in  the  matter  of  its  an- 
nual trial  of  strength  with  Upper  Saxton,  went  over  to 
Smith  in  a  body.  Little  Bilstead  Society,  however, 
showed  a  nicer  discrimination  between  the  relative 
claims  of  match-winning  and  morals. 

Colonel  Enderby  was  not  the  man  to  be  influenced 
by  "mob-worship,"  as  he  called  it,  and  the  sudden  popu- 
larity of  Smith  rendered  him  almost  apoplectic  with 
rage.  He  drank  many  whiskies-and-sodas,  which  re- 
acted upon  his  liver,  and  his  liver  in  turn  affected  his 
temper. 

There  was  between  Colonel  Enderby  and  peace  with 
Alfred  Warren  a  linen  line  of  fluttering  filminess.  He 
had  been  known  to  swear  audibly  in  a  crowded  thor- 
oughfare at  the  sight  of  a  shop-window  dressed  for 
the  part  of  a  "Great  White  Sale,"  and  to  the  astonish- 
ment of  the  passers-by.  Nothing  could  wipe  out  the 
memory  of  what  he  regarded  as,  not  only  an  insult  to 
himself,  but  an  affront  to  the  army. 

When  Tom  Bassingthwaighte  delivered  to  the 
Colonel  his  letters  on  the  morning  after  Smith  had 

made  cricket  history  for  Little  Bilstead,  he  had  added 

217 


218        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

to  his  usual  greeting  of  "Good  mornin',  Colonel"  a 
reference  to  the  victory  of  the  previous  afternoon. 

"Go  to  hell !"  had  been  the  explosive  reply,  and  the 
door  was  banged  violently  in  the  postman's  face. 

Can  ninety-nine  not  out  and  a  handful  of  wickets 
wipe  out  the  memory  of  a  great  scandal?  That  was 
the  question  which  had  exercised  the  mind  of  Miss  Jell 
throughout  a  sleepless  night.  She  knew  that  in  the 
morning  her  sister  would  return  to  her  hero-worship 
of  the  day  before.  Miss  Jell  had  noted  in  the  de- 
meanour of  her  sister,  when  rebuked  for  her  admiration 
of  the  prodigal,  an  indication  of  mutiny.  It  was  the 
merest  suggestion;  but  it  had  caused  her  some  anxiety. 
To  her,  Miss  Mary  was  a  younger  sister,  and  as  such 
must  be  protected  from  all  influences  likely  to  imperil 
the  Victorian  innocence  of  her  naturally  sweet  nature. 

Something  must  be  done,  Miss  Jell  had  told  herself 
time  after  time,  as  she  tossed  from  side  to  side  on  her 
feather-bed.  It  was  the  flat-footed  Ellen,  however, 
who  had  supplied  the  rod  with  which  the  unfortunate 
Mary  Jell  was  to  be  disciplined. 

Miss  Jell  was  first  down  that  morning,  and  Ellen,  a 
woman  and  therefore  a  hero-worshipper,  promptly 
made  reference  to  the  cricket-match  and  how  the  lad 
who  brought  the  milk  from  the  farm  had  made  refer- 
ence to  "Miss  Mary  a-clinging  to  Mist'  Alfred's  leg." 

Having  frozen  Ellen  to  silence,  Miss  Jell  was  con- 
scious of  a  feeling  of  relief.  During  the  night  she 
had  prayed  very  hard  for  guidance,  and  Providence 
had  sent  her  Smith's  left  leg  wherewith  to  rebuke  her 
delinquent  sister. 

By  the  time  breakfast  was  over,  that  is  to  say  Miss 
Jell's  breakfast,  for  her  sister  consumed  nothing  but 
the  bitterness  of  repentance,  Miss  Mary  was  reduced 


A  VILLAGE  DIVIDED  AGAINST  ITSELF       219 

to  tears  and  a  determination  to  slip  into  the  church 
that  morning  and  ask  God  to  forgive  her  for  her  un- 
maidenliness  in  grasping  the  shin  of  a  popular  hero, 
albeit  in  a  moment  of  great  excitement. 

She  was  convinced  that  she  would  never  be  able  to 
meet  Smith  again  without  blushing,  and  the  mere  sight 
of  a  man  would  recall  to  her  mind  that  she,  Mary  Jell, 
had  been  so  forward  as  to  grasp  a  masculine  tibia. 

"I — I  must  be  brazen,"  she  sobbed  on  her  bed  that 
morning,  and  Mary  Jell  knew  no  greater  condemnation 
of  a  woman  than  to  say  that  she  was  brazen. 

In  each  and  every  Little  Bilstead  home  on  the  morn- 
ing following  Smith's  sudden  jump  to  fame,  the  talk 
was  exclusively  concerned  with  the  great  and  glorious 
victory  so  recently  achieved.  Each  player  in  the  match 
recounted  his  own  particular  deeds,  particularly  those 
who  had  been  the  greatest  failures.  To  listening 
wives,  mothers  or  brothers,  they  explained,  to  their 
own  entire  satisfaction,  that  the  match  had  been  won 
by  that  one  particular  run  which  they  had  either  made 
or  prevented  an  Upper  Saxton  player  from  making. 

All  agreed  that  Mist'  Alfred's  play  had  been  a  reve- 
lation, and  those  who  possessed  some  knowledge  of  the 
science  of  the  game  went  over  incontinently  to  the 
Smith  Heresy. 

During  the  day  Little  Bilstead  was  inspired  with 
varying  emotions  and  prompted  to  diverse  occupations. 

Mrs.  Spelman  took  her  toque  to  pieces,  although  it 
had  been  re-trimmed  specially  for  the  cricket-match, 
whilst  Tom  Simmons  got  most  expensively  drunk  on 
old  ale,  the  strength  of  his  head  rendering  indulgence  in 
this  direction  almost  ruinous.  Officially  he  reported 
himself  as  suffering  from  colic. 

Mrs.  Truspitt-Greene  spent  the  whole  morning  in 


220        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

"waving"  her  best  auburn  wig,  and  composing  an  in- 
vitation to  "Mr.  Alfred  Warren"  to  take  tea  with  her 
a  week  hence.  If  anything  happened  in  the  meantime, 
she  argued,  influenza  should  save  her  from  the  embar- 
rassment of  an  engagement  she  was  undesirous  of 
keeping. 

Miss  Marshall  washed  her  father's  linen  trousers, 
humming  the  while,  "Onward,  Christian  Soldiers,"  in 
honour  of  the  victory  of  her  village;  whilst  her  father 
was  engaged  in  retrospective  regrets  for  the  many 
dainties  he  had  missed,  which  he  now  saw  he  might 
easily  have  attached  without  exciting  comment,  either 
verbal  or  mental. 

At  The  Grange,  Eric  was  irrepressible.  He 
"jazzed"  Mrs.  Higgs  across  the  hall  until  she  collapsed 
upon  the  stairs,  not  from  want  of  enthusiasm;  but  from 
sheer  lack  of  breath.  He  locked  Willis  in  his  pantry, 
and  burst  in  upon  his  sister  at  a  time  when  at  least  two 
inches  more  of  silk  stocking  were  exposed  to  view  than 
the  public  was  privileged  to  see.  The  result  was  a 
fierce  combat,  in  which  a  table  became  upset  and  a  vase 
broken  before  Marjorie's  dainty  person  was  firmly  fixed 
upon  what  Eric  called  his  stomach;  but  which  she  in- 
sisted was  his  chest. 

"Isn't  it  just  spif  ?"  he  gasped,  when  at  length  per- 
mitted to  rise,  and  Marjorie  smiled. 

"I  say,  Marjie,"  he  burst  out,  when  his  sister  had 
assumed  a  dressing-gown  of  a  rich  amber  tint.  That 
morning  ordinary  speech  was  denied  him.  He  was  in 
a  mood  for  bursts  like  those  of  a  Lewis  gun. 

"Yes,  Eric,"  she  replied,  without  looking  round  from 
the  mirror,  in  front  of  which  she  had  taken  up  her 
stand  and  was  proceeding  to  brush  her  hair. 

"Why  don't  you  marry  Smith?" 


A  VILLAGE  DIVIDED  AGAINST  ITSELF       221 

There  was  a  tinkling  crash  as  the  brush  fell  from  her 
hand  among  various  toilet  "requisites." 

"Don't  be  silly,  Eric,"  she  said,  as  she  picked  up  the 
brush  and  proceeded  to  draw  it  over  the  auburn  masses 
of  her  hair. 

"You  like  him." 

"I  don't." 

"You  dropped  your  brush." 

"It  slipped  from  my  hand." 

"Why  doesn't  it  slip  now?" 

"Because  I'm  holding  it  more  tightly." 

"Rats!" 

And  she  continued  in  long  sweeping  strokes  to  re- 
order her  hair. 

"Why  won't  you  marry  him?"  he  persisted,  as  she 
made  no  sign  of  continuing  the  conversation.  "He'll 
play  for  England  one  of  these  days." 

It  seemed  to  him  selfish  of  any  sister  to  deny  a  fellow 
such  a  brother-in-law. 

"But  you  know  he's  not  that  Warren  blighter,"  he 
continued. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  demanded,  turning 
swiftly  from  the  contemplation  of  her  own  reflection 
to  the  screwed-up  freckled  face  of  her  brother.  Eric 
always  screwed  up  his  features  when  demanding  some- 
thing he  saw  very  little  chance  of  getting. 

"A  fellow  can't  learn  to  play  cricket  like  that;  it's; 
in  him.  You  ask  the  vicar." 

Marjorie  turned  slowly  back  to  the  mirror.  The 
movement  of  the  brush  was  slower,  and  there  was  a 
slight  pucker  about  the  delicately  pencilled  eyebrows. 

"He's  frightfully  keen  on  you,"  Eric  went  on  pres- 
ently. "He  seems — ' 

"Be  quiet,  Eric,  and  don't  talk  nonsense,"  she  cried, 


222        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

and  the  mirror  reflected  a  blush  that  she  knew  was 
not  hers. 

"He's  always  talking  about  you,"  Eric  continued 
remorselessly,  "or  trying  to  get  me  to.  He  thinks  I 
don't  see  through  it;  but  I  do,"  he  added,  with  a  know- 
ing air.  "I  may  have  a  fool  name;  but — " 

"Where  do  you  learn  such  expressions,  Eric?"  broke 
in  Marjorie,  anxious  to  divert  the  conversation  from  its 
present  embarrassing  channel. 

"What  expression?" 

"Fool  name." 

"Oh!  that's  Otis  P.  Wannerbocker's.  He's  an 
American,  one  of  Hambly's  crowd.  Not  a  bad  fellow. 
He  broke  Gambrill's  nose,  and  it  made  him  popular." 

"Made  him  popular!"  cried  Marjorie,  pausing  in  her 
brushing. 

"Gamb's  always  bullying  somebody,  and  he  said 
Washington  was  a  rebel.  So  Otis  P.  went  for  him,  and 
Gamb  went  about  with  his  nose  in  a  sling.  Of  course, 
we  all  know  that  old  Wash  was  a  reb;  but  it  was  rotten 
bad  form  to  say  so,"  he  added  for  his  sister's  illumina- 
tion. "But  I  say,  Marjie,  it's  jolly  beastly  of  you." 

"What  is?"  she  queried  weakly. 

"You  know  what  I  mean,"  he  retorted  sullenly. 
"You  might,  you  know  how  rotten  I  am  with  fast  bowl- 
ing, and  he  would — " 

"Don't  be  ridiculous,  Eric,"  she  retorted,  resuming 
her  brushing. 

"It's  precious  little  I  ever  ask,"  he  grumbled,  "and 
when  I  do  you — here,  what  the — " 

She  had  turned  swiftlv  and,  before  Eric  could  com- 
plete his  sentence,  or  had  time  to  dodge,  her  arms  were 
round  his  neck,  and  she  had  kissed  him. 


A  VILLAGE  DIVIDED  AGAINST  ITSELF       223 

"You  off  your  Brazil?"  he  demanded  angrily,  as  he 
rubbed  the  back  of  his  neck,  then  withdrawing  his  hand 
he  examined  it  carefully  for  signs  of  blood,  but  seeing 
nothing,  he  resumed  the  rubbing.  "That  brush  hurts." 
With  heightened  colour,  Marjorie  returned  to  the 
mirror  and  recommenced  the  brushing  of  her  hair.  Did 
her  eyes  really  sparkle  as  much  as  the  mirror  said? 

"It  was  to  show  I  forgive  you  for  bursting  into  my 
room  when — well,  just  now,"  she  said,  with  a  calmness 
she  was  far  from  feeling. 

For  nearly  a  minute  he  continued  to  regard  the 
rhythmic  sweep  of  the  brush  and  the  billow  of  her  hair 
as  from  time  to  time  she  threw  back  her  head.  Finally, 
without  further  remark,  he  slipped  out  of  the  room, 
his  brow  puckered  in  thought,  as  have  been  the  brows 
of  many  other  males  at  the  inexplicability  of  the  female 
of  their  own  species. 

It  was  then  that  he  locked  Willis  in  his  pantry.  He 
required  dramatic  relief. 

That  morning's  breakfast  at  the  vicarage  was  the 
brightest  that  either  Miss  Lipscombe  or  Janet  remem- 
bered. For  the  time  being,  the  vicar  seemed  to  find 
more  in  the  smallness  of  Little  Bilstead  than  in  the 
glory  and  the  grandeur  of  the  ancients. 

The  cricket-match  was  replayed  in  its  every  detail; 
each  thrill  was  re-experienced,  and  every  pang  was  felt 
anew.  Time  after  time  came  from  Miss  Lipscombe 
the  reminder,  "John,  your  coffee  is  getting  cold,"  or 
"Cricket  will  keep  hot;  but  eggs  and  bacon  won't,"  at 
which  the  vicar,  ever  obedient,  would  either  drink,  or 
eat,  a  moment  later  returning  to  the  excitements  of  the 
previous  day's  game. 

Both  he  and  Miss  Lipscombe  were  now  entirely  con- 


224.  THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

vinced  that  Smith  was  not  Alfred  Warren.  The  vicar 
had  dismissed  the  matter  in  a  few  words.  A  first-class 
cricketer  himself  in  his  youth,  he  knew  that  such  skill 
as  Smith  had  shown  was  as  remote  from  acquirement 
as  the  genius  of  a  Theocritus,  or  a  Horace. 

Janet  marvelled  at  the  change  in  "the  master,"  whilst 
the  lines  at  the  corners  of  Miss  Lipscombe's  mouth 
fluttered  as  she  watched  the  keen,  nervous  hands  of  her 
brother  as  they  emphasised  his  words. 

Once  he  upset  his  coffee-cup  in  illustrating  a  stroke 
to  which  he  had  been  addicted  nearly  half  a  century  be- 
fore, and  he  forgot  even  to  apologise  to  his  sister,  a 
thing  he  invariably  did  at  any  mishap  due  either  to  his 
own  or  another's  act. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  whirr  of  wings,  followed  by 
shrill  pipings  of  protest,  announcing  that  some  forbid- 
den foot  was  invading  the  birds'  breakfast-table.  The 
flutters  disappeared  from  the  corners  of  Miss  Lip- 
scombe's mouth,  as  she  turned  to  rebuke  the  intruder 
for  an  unpardonable  act  of  sacrilege. 

A  moment  later  the  grinning  face  of  Eric  appeared 
at  the  open  French  windows. 

"Eric,  haven't  I  told  you — " 

"Sorry,  Miss  Lipscombe,"  he  cried;  "but  I  couldn't 
wait  to  go  round.  I've  just  got  to  talk  about  it  to  some 
one  or  I  shall  explode.  I've  had  a  fight  with  Marjie, 
jazzed  Higgy  out  of  breath,  and  locked  Willis  in  his 
pantry;  but — isn't  it  ripping,  sir,"  he  broke  off,  ad- 
dressing the  vicar,  "absolutely  top-hole.  Morning," 
he  nodded  to  Smith. 

"We  were  just  talking  about  the  match,  Eric,"  said 
the  vicar. 

"I  shan't  talk  of  anything  else,  sir,  for  a  month," 
cried  Eric. 


A  VILLAGE  DIVIDED  AGAINST  ITSELF       225 

"It  was  a  wonderful  day,"  said  the  vicar,  relapsing 
somewhat  into  his  customary  dreaminess,  "a  wonderful 
day.  I  often  wonder,  Hannah,"  he  continued,  address- 
ing his  sister,  "if  I  ought  not  to  modify  the  interest  I 
take  in  sport.  For  a  shepherd — " 

"Rubbish !"  she  cried.  "If  a  shepherd  isn't  a  sports- 
man, how  is  he  to  know  how  to  keep  wolves  away  from 
his  flock?" 

The  vicar's  eyes  widened  slightly  as  he  gazed  across 
at  his  sister. 

"That  savours  of  the  Sophists,  Hannah,"  he  said 
gently.  "I  must  seek  the  guidance  of  the  bishop  when 
he  comes,"  and  Miss  Lipscombe  made  a  mental  note 
to  have  the  first  word  with  the  bishop. 

It  had  become  the  bishop's  custom,  when  visiting  his 
old  friend,  the  vicar  of  Little  Bilstead,  first  to  enquire 
of  Miss  Lipscombe  for  details  of  what  he  called  "the 
dark  patches."  Consequently,  when  the  vicar  asked 
for  guidance,  the  bishop  was  never  at  a  loss  how  to 
advise  him,  and  in  such  a  way  as  to  deny  him  none  of 
the  few  pleasures  he  loved;  but  which  he  thought  might 
be  wrong  just  because  he  loved  them. 

"I  wish  we  were  playing  again  to-day,"  said  Eric, 
as  he  seated  himself  at  the  table,  and  began  work  upon 
a  large  slice  of  currant  cake. 

"Are  you  collecting  eggs  then?"  asked  Miss  Lip- 
scombe drily. 

"I  say  that's  too  bad,  Miss  Lipscombe,"  he  pro- 
tested through  a  mouthful  of  cake.  "I  know  I  made  a 
blob;  but  if  I  hadn't  stopped  that  boundary,  we  should 
have  been  licked." 

"I  suppose  there  are  ten  different  men  who  think 
they  won,"  suggested  Miss  Lipscombe,  who  loved  to 
tease  Eric. 


226        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

"No,  Miss  Lipscombe,"  he  replied,  "nine  men  and 
a  boy,"  and  he  took  another  bite  of  cake,  which  to  fur- 
ther controversy  was  like  an  editorial,  "this  discussion 
is  now  closed." 

As  soon  as  Colonel  Enderby  was  shaved  and  dressed 
that  morning,  he  went  down  to  the  village  in  the  hope 
of  encountering  one  of  his  own  "social  set,"  as  he  was 
accustomed  to  regard  those  whom  he  allowed  himself 
to  meet  on  equal  terms. 

As  he  passed  Rose  Cottage,  he  caught  a  glimpse  of 
Mr.  Marshall's  white  trousers  swaying  gently  in  the 
breeze.  Some  strange  association  of  ideas  caused  him 
to  flush  darkly  and  swear  fluently  under  his  breath. 

Outside  the  post-office,  he  encountered  Mrs.  Trus- 
pitt-Greene,  who  had  just  posted  her  letter  inviting 
Smith  to  tea  with  her.  She  had  taken  the  precaution 
of  altering  the  slope  of  her  handwriting,  so  that  "Paul 
Pryingthwaighte,"  as  she  called  the  village  postman, 
should  not  discover  who  was  writing  to  the  prodigal. 
She  had  taken  the  further  precaution  of  securing  the 
flap  with  sealing-wax.  Mrs.  Truspitt-Greene  took  no 
risks. 

As  she  had  addressed  her  invitation  to  Alfred  War- 
ren, it  was  not  until  months  later  that  it  was  opened, 
and  Smith  became  aware  of  the  honour  that  had  been 
conferred  upon  him. 

"Good  morning,  marm,"  cried  the  Colonel,  as  he 
lifted  his  cap.  "None  the  worse  for  yesterday's  heat, 
I  hope,"  he  added  gallantly. 

Mrs.  Truspitt-Greene  smiled  up  at  him,  using  the 
same  smile  which,  forty  years  ago,  had  secured  her  a 
husband. 

"What  did  you  think  of  it,  Colonel?"  she  asked, 


A  VILLAGE  DIVIDED  AGAINST  ITSELF       227 

guardedly.  Not  quite  seeing  how  she  could  ascribe  the 
defeat  of  Upper  Saxton  to  Heavenly  Will,  she  decided 
it  were  better  to  seek  earthly  guidance. 

"A  scandal,  marm  !"  he  cried,  in  the  tone  he  had  been 
accustomed  to  use  to  his  officers  when  informing  them 
that  the  regiment,  and  incidentally  the  British  army, 
was  going  to  the  dogs.  "Last  night  the  whole  village 
was  intoxicated,  marm,  intoxicated,"  he  added,  in  what 
was  almost  a  shout. 

"You  don't  say  so !"  cried  Mrs.  Truspitt-Greene. 
All  the  morning  she  had  been  regretting  the  fact  that 
the  previous  evening  she  had  allowed  herself  to  be  dis- 
suaded from  taking  a  walk  with  her  maid  towards  the 
village.  It  was  the  maid  who  had  dissuaded  her;  she 
had  plans  of  her  own,  also  the  back-door  key.  At 
breakfast  she  had  told  her  mistress  of  the  "goings  on" 
of  the  night  before,  mentioning  the  milk-boy  as  her 
source  of  information. 

"I  saw  it  myself,"  he  barked.  "The  whole  village 
was  full  of  men  and  women,  drinking  and  fighting  and 
dancing.  It's  a  scandal,  and  all  through  that  scoundrel 
Warren.  He  ought  to  be  deported." 

It  was  true  that  Little  Bilstead  had  held  high  car- 
nival the  previous  night,  gathering  in  force  outside 
The  Pigeons.  The  local  contingent  had  been  rein- 
forced by  a  good  sprinkling  of  Upper  Saxtonians. 

By  nine  o'clock  The  Pigeons'  cellars  had  been  drunk 
dry  of  all  save  a  few  bottles  of  spirits  and  mineral 
waters,  after  which  strange  concoctions  were  invented 
and  drunk,  including  cider  and  rum,  cherry-brandy  and 
stone  ginger-beer. 

There  had  been  several  faction  fights,  in  all  of  which 
Little  Bilstead  had  triumphed;  for  never  had  Little 


228        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

Bilstead  tails  been  so  erect  as  on  that  dramatic  night 
of  unexpected  victory. 

At  first  the  general  attitude  had  been  a  little  uncer- 
tain; but  after  a  few  rounds  of  the  flowing  bowl,  as  rep- 
resented by  mugs  of  ale,  the  name  of  "Mist'  Alfred" 
was  heard  again  and  again,  coupled  with  toasts  of  vain- 
glory and  rhodomontade;  for  Little  Bilstead  wore  its 
newly-acquired  laurels  no  more  modestly  than  Upper 
Saxton  had  worn  theirs  in  the  past. 

Yardley  had  been  seen  hopping  about  unsteadily  on 
one  foot,  like  an  intoxicated  robin,  moving  from  group 
to  group  enquiring  if  any  one  had  seen  his  boot,  which 
had  somehow  disappeared  when  removed  in  order  that 
a  crease  in  his  sock  might  be  readjusted.  Roars  of 
laughter  had  greeted  his  efforts  to  discover  it. 

Yardley  had  been  one  of  the  chief  victims  of  the  vic- 
tory. Every  one  wanted  to  be  his  host,  and  quite  a 
number  succeeded,  with  the  result  that  the  Little  Bil- 
stead captain,  who  boasted  one  of  the  strongest  heads 
in  the  Eastern  Counties,  found  it  extremely  difficult  to 
move  about  on  one  leg.. 

"That  fellow  Postle  was  one  of  the  worst,"  barked 
Colonel  Enderby.  "I  shall  report  him." 

It  was  true  that  P.C.  Postle  had  somewhat  forgot- 
ten the  dignity  due  to  the  uniform  he  wore. 

Colonel  Enderby  was  prepared  to  report  an  arch- 
angel for  making  a  draught  with  his  wings.  There 
were  few  of  his  inferiors  in  Little  Bilstead,  male  or 
female,  whom  at  one  time  or  another  he  had  not  threat- 
ened to  report. 

At  that  very  moment,  the  village  policeman  himself 
was  engaged  in  going  through  his  cottage  with  a  tooth- 
comb  in  search  of  his  helmet.  He  was  puzzled  to  ac- 


A  VILLAGE  DIVIDED  AGAINST  ITSELF       229 

count  for  a  red  hat,  adorned  with  blue  poppies,  which 
hung  from  the  peg  dedicated  to  his  official  headgear 
when  not  in  action. 

"Ha!"  cried  the  Colonel,  as  the  Miss  Jells  came 
out  of  the  post-office  and,  with  a  bow  and  another  ex- 
posure of  his  manifest  baldness  to  the  blue  dome  of 
heaven,  he  hurriedly  left  Mrs.  Truspitt-Greene. 

"Good  morning!"  he  cried,  with  a  sudden  stiffening 
of  his  frame,  followed  by  a  bow  and  yet  a  third  ex- 
posure of  the  crown  that  took  so  high  a  polish.  "I 
hope  you  were  not  disturbed  by  last  night's  disgrace- 
ful scenes." 

Neither  of  the  Miss  Jells  had  heard  of  anything  dis- 
graceful, although  Miss  Mary  blushed  at  the  sound^of 
a  word  she  heard  for  the  second  time  that  day.  Colonel 
Enderby  once  more  plunged  into  the  story  of  the 
scandalous  conduct  of  the  Little  Bilsteadians  in  the 
hour  of  victory. 

Miss  Jell  looked  shocked,  whilst  Miss  Mary  strove 
not  to  appear  as  interested  as  she  felt. 

"We  shall  be  the  laughing-stock  of  the  whole 
county,"  he  cried  angrily  in  conclusion,  "and  all  through 
that  young  reprobate  Warren." 

Miss  Mary  gave  a  little  shudder  of  fear;  for  had 
not  she,  Mary  Jell,  clung  to  the  left  shin  of  the  very 
man  the  Colonel  was  denouncing — she  felt  almost  fast. 

"I  tried  to  find  Postle,"  continued  the  Colonel, 
"and — "  He  stopped  suddenly.  Coming  towards 
them  was  the  epitome  of  the  law  himself,  carrying 
something  done  up  flimsily  in  a  newspaper. 

At  the  sight  of  the  Miss  Jells  and  Colonel  Enderby, 
whom  he  held  in  considerable  dread,  Postle  hurriedly 
transferred  the  parcel  to  the  rear,  walking  along  with 


230        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

an  elaborate  air  of  unconcern,  which  in  another  would 
not  have  deceived  even  him. 

Memory  had  at  length  come  to  his  aid,  and  he  re- 
called having  exchanged  hats  the  previous  night  with 
pretty  Millie  Marjoram,  and  he  was  now  on  his  way 
to  effect  a  re-exchange. 

Although  wearing  his  uniform,  Postle  had  on  his 
head  a  cloth  cap,  which  gave  to  his  appearance  the  sug- 
gestion of  a  music-hall  turn. 

He  was  so  intent  upon  the  little  group  of  notabili- 
ties that  he  did  not  see  the  smiling  Millie  herself  ap- 
proaching, his  helmet  on  the  back  of  her  impudent  head. 

Colonel  Enderby,  however,  saw  it  and,  being  a  man 
of  the  world  and  one  who  had  "fought  for  his  king  and 
country,"  as  he  was  fond  of  expressing  it,  realised 
immediately  the  significance  of  what  he  saw. 

"Postle!"  he  cried,  in  a  voice  that  would  have 
brought  a  squad  of  the  rawest  recruits  to  attention  like 
a  Prussian  regiment. 

There  was  a  scream,  a  helmet  dropped  a  few  feet 
in  front  of  the  astonished  Postle,  whilst  Millie  was 
running  towards  a  red  hat  with  blue  poppies  lying  in 
the  middle  of  the  road.  That  jaunty  air  of  detach- 
ment had  been  fatal  to  the  fastenings  of  P.C.  Postle's 
parcel,  and  the  hat  had  fallen  out. 

"Catch  me  changin'  hats  wi'  you  again,  bor,"  cried 
the  outraged  Millie,  as  she  proceeded  to  blow  the  dust 
from  her  precious  headgear.  "You  gowk !"  she  added, 
her  eyes  still  upon  the  reds  and  blues  of  her  treasured 
millinery. 

Postle  continued  to  stare  at  the  Colonel,  whilst  Miss 
Jell  turned  aside  and  Miss  Mary  blushed.  Somehow 
or  other  the  incident  reminded  her  of  her  own  un- 
maidenly  act  of  the  day  before. 


A  VILLAGE  DIVIDED  AGAINST  ITSELF       231 

To  Miss  Jell,  it  seemed  almost  indelicate  that  such 
revelations  should  be  made  in  the  presence  of  a  man. 
She  had  always  disapproved  of  Millie  Marjoram;  she 
disapproved  of  all  pretty  girls  on  principle,  for  was  not 
prettiness  in  a  girl  merely  a  trap,  and  did  it  not,  sooner 
or  later,  invariably  lead  to  scandal?  This  incident, 
however,  was  both  flagrant  and  indelicate.  It — 

"What  have  you  to  say  for  yourself,  Postle  ?"  barked 
the  Colonel  fiercely,  his  moustache  appearing  strangely 
white  against  the  purple  of  his  face. 

"She  took  my  'elmet,"  he  grumbled,  as  he  stooped 
to  retrieve  his  official  headgear.  "Blaam  her !"  he  mut- 
tered under  his  breath,  as  he  rose  once  more  to  an  up- 
right position.  Then,  in  what  appeared  to  be  one 
movement,  he  placed  the  helmet  on  his  head,  saluted, 
turned,  and  was  walking  swiftly  away  in  the  direction 
of  his  own  cottage. 

"I  'ont  forget  this,  mor,"  he  hissed,  as  he  passed  the 
now  smiling  Millie,  who  promptly  put  out  her  tongue 
at  him. 

Miss  Mary,  who  saw  the  action,  was  once  more 
strangely  reminded  of  her  own  lapse. 

"I  hope  you  are  not  going  to  receive  this  young 
scoundrel!"  cried  Colonel  Enderby,  tearing  his  gaze 
from  the  back  of  the  retreating  Postle  to  Miss  Jell. 
"We  look  to  you,"  he  added,  as  she  appeared  to 
hesitate. 

"Certainly  not,  Colonel  Enderby,"  was  the  icy  retort 
and,  with  a  slight  bow,  Miss  Jell  passed  on,  followed 
by  her  sister,  who  blushed  for  the  third  time  that 
morning. 

"Now  what  the  devil — !"  he  spluttered,  bewildered 
at  the  sudden  change  in  Miss  Jell's  social  barometer. 
"Damn!"  he  exploded,  as  he  turned  on  his  heel  and 


232        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

stamped  off  in  the  direction  of  his  own  house,  where 
Mrs.  Warnes  was  engaged  in  preparing  a  curry  almost 
as  hot  as  the  Colonel's  temper. 

"It  is  not  for  Colonel  Enderby  to  suggest  whom  we 
shall  receive  and  whom  we  shall  not  receive,"  Miss 
Jell  remarked  to  her  sister,  as  they  walked  through  the 
village  in  the  direction  of  The  Cedars.  "His  remark 
is  a  presumption,"  she  added,  and  her  sister  wondered 
if  they  were  really  going  to  receive  the  man  whose 
shin  she  had  embraced  with  such  abandon,  and  again 
she  blushed. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

P.C.    POSTLE   ASSUMES   HIS    UNIFORM 

*  *  ,4  RE  you  the  village  constable  ?" 
/"\        "I  be,  sir,"  replied  John  Postle,  wishing  he 
were  in  uniform,  and  that  he  had  selected  an- 
other day  for  cleaning  out  the  fowl-house.    The  indica- 
tions all  pointed  to  "a  case." 

"I  have  been  assaulted!" 

The  speaker  was  the  man  in  the  brown-and-white 
check  suit  whom  Eric  had  "pinked,"  as  he  called  it,  the 
previous  Saturday  afternoon  on  the  way  back  from 
Norwich. 

"Assaulted,  sir !  You  don't  mean  it."  John  Postle's 
heart  leapt  with  joy. 

In  a  flash  he  saw  his  portrait  in  the  papers,  particu- 
larly the  London  papers.  He  saw  himself  arresting 
dangerous  characters,  he  saw  himself  promoted.  He 
saw — 

"Where  ha'  you  been  assaulted,  sir?"  he  heard  him- 
self enquiring. 

"About  three  miles  from  here,"  said  the  stranger, 
and  he  went  on  to  say  that  he  had  been  forced  to  accept 
a  lift  to  Norwich  from  a  passing  carter,  both  for  him- 
self and  his  motor  bicycle.  This  accounted  for  the  de- 
lay in  lodging  his  complaint. 

"Ay,  but  what  part  o'  the  body,  sir?"  asked  Postle 
eagerly.  He  was  more  than  ever  resentful  that  the 
fowls  should  have  claimed  him  on  this  of  all  days. 
His  uniform  would  have  made  all  the  difference  in  the 
world. 

233 


234.  THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

"I  was  in  a  stooping  position,"  explained  the 
stranger,  with  great  delicacy. 

Postle  rubbed  his  chin  with  the  pad  of  his  right 
thumb,  which  bore  marked  evidences  of  his  recent 
occupation.  The  law  required  the  utmost  detail.  In 
his  own  mind  he  was  quite  satisfied  that  the  stranger 
had  been  kicked;  but  he  doubted  if  his  superiors  would 
consider  "assaulted  whilst  in  a  stooping  position"  as 
sufficiently  explicit.  The  impressive  appearance  of  the 
prosecutor,  as  in  his  own  mind  he  already  called  him, 
with  his  luxuriant  auburn  moustache,  seemed  to  forbid 
a  demand  for  further  particulars. 

"I  was  bending  over  my  motor-cycle,"  continued  the 
stranger,  "which  had  developed  engine-trouble,  when 
I  was  shot — " 

"Shot!" 

The  word  burst  from  John  Postle's  lips  like  a  shout 
of  thanksgiving.  At  last  his  hour  had  come !  With- 
out a  word  he  turned  and  bolted  into  the  house,  leav- 
ing the  stranger  with  the  auburn  moustache  gazing  into 
a  little  room  crowded  with  the  village  constable's  cher- 
ished possessions.  Before,  however,  he  had  time  to 
make  up  his  mind  whether  or  not  to  enter,  Postle  reap- 
peared, struggling  into  his  official  tunic,  his  helmet  on 
the  back  of  his  head. 

A  few  seconds  later  his  calloused  hands  grasped 
note-book  and  pencil — P.C.  Postle  was  prepared  for 
the  great  moment  of  his  official  career.  A  man  had 
been  shot  in  Little  Bilstead ! 

Already  he  saw  the  newspapers  full  of  the  sensation. 
He  heard  paper-boys  shouting  the  news  in  the  streets 
of  London,  he  saw  himself  at  The  Pigeons,  a  dictator, 
knowing  neither  thirst  nor  interruption. 


P.C.  POSTLE  ASSUMES  HIS  UNIFORM         235 

"You  were  shot,  sir?"  he  began,  the  tip  of  the  pencil 
pressed  against  his  lower  lip,  his  eyes  searching  the 
stranger's  generous  person  for  bloodstains.  "You 
come  inside,  sir,"  he  added  with  inspiration,  suddenly 
becoming  conscious  that  a  little  fringe  of  juvenile  spec- 
tators was  collecting  round  the  gate. 

The  stranger  entered  the  little  room,  to  which  the 
front  door  gave  direct  access,  and  seated  himself  at 
the  round-table  in  the  centre,  whilst  Postle  worked 
industriously  with  his  stub  of  pencil,  pausing  after  every 
other  word  to  moisten  the  tip. 

"Shot  in  a  stooping  position,"  he  read  slowly  as  he 
wrote,  "with —  What  were  you  shot  with,  sir,  was  it 
a  gun  or  a  pistol?"  he  enquired,  looking  up. 

"I  think  it  was  a  catapult." 

In  a  flash  P.C.  Postle's  house  of  cards  was  de- 
molished. 

A  catapult ! 

Although  it  was  an  irregular  and  illegal  proceeding 
for  one  liege  subject  of  His  Majesty  King  George  to 
assault  another,  even  with  a  catapult,  there  was  some- 
thing almost  grotesque  in  the  view  that  a  catapult  was 
a  lethal  weapon. 

There  was  about  John  Postle  nothing  of  the  sleuth- 
hound,  with  a  face  that  is  a  mask  for  the  emotions  be- 
hind. His  surprise  and  disappointment  expressed 
themselves  so  clearly  in  his  widened  eyes  and  half-open 
mouth,  that  the  stranger  felt  called  upon  to  say  some- 
thing in  justification  of  his  charge. 

"If  I  had  been  riding  my  motor-cycle  instead  of 
standing  by  it,"  he  said,  "I  might  have  been  killed.  Be- 
sides, it  hurt.  It  still  hurts,"  he  added,  and  he  shifted 
uneasily  in  his  chair. 


236        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

With  flagging  and  laborious  pencil,  Postle  took  down 
the  remaining  particulars  the  stranger  had  to  give. 
His  heart  was  no  longer  in  his  task,  he  even  regretted 
having  donned  his  official  tunic.  The  absurdity  of 
assuming  such  a  garment  to  take  down  details  of  a 
man  having  been  shot  at  by  some  one  with  a  catapult 
was  obvious  even  to  him,  and  he  was  proud  of  his  uni- 
form— and  besides,  there  was  no  blood. 

To  John  Postle  assault  without  bloodshed  was  not 
crime  as  he  understood  it.  He. always  thought  of  the 
victim  as  "weltering  in  his  own  blood."  It  added 
colour  to  the  crime. 

He  proceeded  to  rub  his  chin  with  the  pad  of  a 
dubious  thumb.  He  was  a  little  uncertain  as  to  the 
next  step  in  the  procedure.  Had  it  been  murder,  with 
a  "weltering"  corpse,  he  would  have  known  exactly 
what  was  required  of  him;  but  a  man  assaulted  by  a 
catapult  whilst  in  a  stooping  position!  This  presented 
difficulties. 

"Did  you  see  the  prisoner?"  he  enquired,  anticipat- 
ing the  natural  order  of  events. 

"Did  I  see?"  queried  the  stranger. 

"Did  you  see  the  man  what  assaulted  you,  sir?"  en- 
quired Postle,  "whilst  in  a  stooping  position,"  he  added 
as  an  afterthought. 

"It  wasn't  a  man,"  said  the  stranger  irascibly.  "It 
was  a  boy,  a  boy  with  red  hair.  He  was  in  a  motor- 
car. I  took  the  number  of  the  car,  or  at  least  part  of 
it,"  and  he  dived  into  his  breast-pocket.  "It  was — " 
he  drew  a  note-book  from  his  pocket  and  gazed  at  it 
earnestly,  "N  078,  and  some  other  figure  I  could  not 
quite  see;  it  was  partly  covered  with  mud." 

Postle  looked  solemn  as  he  still  rubbed   a  bristly 


P.C.  POSTLE  ASSUMES  HIS  UNIFORM         237 

chin  with  his  left  thumb.  The  number  of  the  car,  even 
in  its  incomplete  state,  coupled  with  the  redness  of 
the  hair  of  the  delinquent,  constituted  clues  of  the  ut- 
most importance.  In  other  words,  he  had  identified 
the  aggressor,  and  the  knowledge  embarrassed  him. 
After  all,  the  complainant  or  prosecutor,  he  was  not  yet 
quite  sure  how  he  ought  to  classify  him,  was  a  stranger, 
and  with  him  all  strangers  were  suspect. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  was  Miss  Marjorie  to  be 
thought  of.  About  Eric  he  troubled  nothing,  all  boys 
were  "young  varmen";  but  the  idea  of  causing  Miss 
Marjorie  trouble  or  worry  was  alien  to  his  thoughts. 

There  was,  however,  the  official  aspect  of  the  case  to 
be  considered. 

"I  have  to  go  on  to  Norwich  now  to  get  a  new  mag- 
neto," announced  the  stranger,  caressing  the  auburn 
luxuriance  that  cascaded  from  his  upper  lip.  "I  shall 
be  back  in  a  few  days.  If  you  haven't  found  this  boy 
by  then,  I  shall  report  the  matter  at  Scotland  Yard." 

Postle  shivered  at  the  mention  of  Scotland  Yard. 
He  was  impressed  by  the  stranger's  firm  demeanour. 
He  might  be  anybody. 

"It's  Master  Eric,  that's  a  sure  moral,"  was  his 
unuttered  thought.  "I  think,  sir,"  he  said,  turning  to 
the  stranger,  "I  ha'  got  a  clue." 

"You  know  this  boy?" 

Postle  hesitated.  It  seemed  disloyal  to  Miss  Mar- 
jorie to  betray  Eric;  still,  there  was  duty  to  be  con- 
sidered. 

"I  fare  to  think  I  can  find  him,  sir,  by  the  time 
you're  back." 

"Then  I  shall  want  you  to  take  me  to  a  magistrate 
and  obtain  a  summons  for — " 


238  THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

"Shooting  at  you  with  a  catapult  while  in  a  stooping 
position,"  murmured  Postle,  as  the  stranger  rose. 

With  a  sigh,  he  straightened  his  tunic  and  cast  a 
glance  at  his  boots,  which  still  bore  traces  of  the 
fowl-house. 

Opening  the  door,  he  stood  aside  for  the  other  to 
pass  out.  A  moment  later  he  was  startled  by  an  ex- 
clamation from  his  visitor,  and  he  had  a  vision  of  the 
burly  figure  running  down  the  path  shouting  to  some 
one  to  stop. 

"That's  him !"  cried  the  stranger  over  his  shoulder, 
pointing  at  Eric,  who  had  just  passed  the  house  and 
was  walking  in  the  direction  of  The  Grange.  "That's 
the  young  scoundrel,"  he  cried  dramatically,  "I  give 
him  in  charge." 

The  recognition  had  been  mutual.  One  swift  glance 
over  his  shoulder  had  been  sufficient  to  enable  Eric 
to  identify  the  man  he  had  "pinked."  Without  hesi- 
tation he  took  to  his  heels. 

Postle  was  fumbling  at  the  tails  of  his  tunic  for 
the  notebook  he  had  just  returned  to  its  customary 
place  of  abode.  The  situation  was  not  without  its 
embarrassments. 

"Why  didn't  you  catch  him?"  demanded  the 
stranger. 

Postle  rubbed  his  chin.  Why  hadn't  he  "effected 
an  arrest"  ?  In  his  own  mind  he  clung  tenaciously 
to  the  terminology  of  the  weekly  paper  he  devoured 
from  breakfast-time  till  bed-time  each  Sunday. 

"I'll — "  he  began,  when  he  stopped  suddenly. 

Coming  towards  them  was  Miss  Mary  Jell.  At  the 
sight  of  the  stranger  she  paused. 

"Is   anything  the   matter,    Postle?"    she    enquired. 


P.C.  POSTLE  ASSUMES  HIS  UNIFORM         239 

looking  up  shyly  at  the  florid  figure  of  the  stranger, 
at  a  loss  to  classify  him. 

"This  be  the  prosecutor,  Miss  Mary,"  was  the  stam- 
mered reply.  "He  say  that  Master — that  he  ha'  been 
shot  while  he  was  in  a — " 

"Shot!"  repeated  Miss  Mary  in  horror.  "How 
dreadful !  Are  you — " 

"With  a  catapult,  miss,"  broke  in  the  stranger,  thus 
assisting  in  his  own  classification. 

"The  prosecutor  say  he  had  engine-trouble,"  ex- 
plained Postle,  "and  that  he  were  shot  while  in  a 
stooping  position — "  He  stopped  suddenly.  The 
stranger  was  coughing  violently. 

Miss  Mary  blushed,  whilst  Postle  looked  from  one 
to  the  other  uncomprehendingly. 

"I'm  so  sorry,"  said  Miss  Mary,  feeling  dreadfully 
adventurous  in  addressing  a  stranger  who  had  not  been 
introduced  to  her.  "I  hope  it — it  didn't  hurt." 

It  was  the  stranger's  turn  to  show  embarrassment. 
He  flushed  a  brick  red. 

"Constable,"  he  said,  to  cover  his  confusion.  "I — j 
I — "  then  with  a  lifting  of  his  cap  and  a  bow  to 
Miss  Mary  that  thrilled  her,  he  turned  and  made 
off  in  the  direction  taken  by  the  fugitive  Eric. 

For  nearly  a  minute  Postle  stood  regarding  the  im- 
pressive brown-and-white  check  back  of  the  man  who 
had  brought  a  transitory  hope  to  his  official  heart. 

"Well,  I'm  danged !"  he  muttered,  pushing  his  helmet 
still  further  back  and  proceeding  to  scratch  a  puzzled 
head.  "If  that  ain't  a  rum  un." 

He  turned  to  Miss  Mary  for  comfort;  but  she  was 
retreating  hurriedly  in  the  opposite  direction  from  that 
taken  by  the  smitten  stranger. 


240        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

Slowly  P.C.  Postle  returned  to  the  fowl-house,  minus 
his  helmet  and  tunic,  whilst  Miss  Mary  hurried  back 
to  The  Cedars.  For  the  rest  of  the  afternoon  she 
was  engaged  in  a  struggle  between  a  sense  of  delicacy 
and  her  feeling  for  drama.  How  was  she  to  tell  Jane, 
and  at  the  same  time  suppress  the  embarrassing  details? 

When  at  length  she  told  of  her  adventure  and  the 
inevitable  question  presented  itself,  as  she  had  fore- 
seen it  would,  she  replied  with  a  blush,  "I  think  he 
was  shot  in  the  arm,  Jane.'^/ 


CHAPTER  XVII 

MR.  GADGETT  PAYS  A  CALL 

JUST  as  P.C.  Postle  emerged  from  his  fowl-house 
to  receive  the  complaint  of  the  stranger  with  the 
auburn  moustache,  Janet  entered  the  vicarage 
drawing-room. 

"A  gentleman  has  called  to  see  you,  sir,"  she  an- 
nounced. 

"To  see  me?"  queried  Smith,  looking  up  from  the 
writing-table  where  he  was  engaged  in  glancing  through 
the  pages  of  an  illustrated  paper. 

uYes,  sir.  He  said  Mr.  Willis  sent  him  over  from 
The  Grange.  He  wouldn't  give  his  name,  sir." 

"Always  a  suspicious  sign,  that,"  murmured  Smith. 
"By  the  way,  whom  did  he  happen  to  ask  for?" 

"For  you,  Mr.  Warren." 

"That  is  to  say  for  Mr.  Alfred  Warren?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Janet,  haven't  I  told  you  a  thousand  times  that 
I  am  not  Mr.  Alfred  Warren;  but  Mr.  Smith?" 

"Yes,  Mr.  Warren." 

"Show  him  in,"  he  said  wearily. 

When  the  door  once  more  opened,  Smith  rose  to 
find  himself  facing  a  little,  ferret-faced  man,  sandy 
where  he  was  not  bald,  and  with  a  chin  that  manifested 
a  marked  inclination  to  retreat  down  his  collar. 

As  he  entered,  he  gave  a  swift  glance  round  the 
room,  his  shifty  little  eyes  blinking  craftily.  At  the 

241 


•242  THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

;sight  of  Smith,  an  evil  expression  passed  over  his  un- 
prepossessing features. 

"Mr.  Alfred  Warren?"  he  interrogated. 

"Sometimes  I  almost  wish  I  were,"  said  Smith,  who 
was  speculating  as  to  what  particular  period  of  Alfred 
Warren's  activities  his  caller  represented.  "As  it  is, 
I  am  always  disappointing  people.  Won't  you  sit 
down,  Mr. — " 

"Gadgett,  of  the  firm  of  Gadgett,  Grandson  and 
Gadgett,  solicitors  of  New  Court,  London,  W.C." 

"And  may  I  take  it  that  you  are  the  grandson?" 
enquired  Smith  gravely. 

"I  am  the  senior  partner,  Mr.  Grimthorpe  Gadgett," 
he  replied  with  a  touch  of  self-importance. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Smith,  with  the  air  of  one  who 
has  settled  an  important  point. 

"Am  I  addressing  Mr.  Alfred  Warren?" 

""You  are  not,"  smiled  Smith. 

For  a  moment,  Mr.  Gadgett  looked  nonplussed.  His 
face  assumed  an  even  more  ferrety  expression.  He 
gazed  at  Smith  as  if  trying  to  read  his  thoughts. 

"Then  may  I  enquire  who  it  is  I  have  the  pleasure 
of  addressing?" 

"Certainly;  my  name  is  James  Smith." 

Mr.  Gadgett  glanced  up  at  him  sharply.  It  was 
obvious  that  the  answer  was  unexpected. 

"We  are  a  large  family,  we  Smiths,"  said  Smith, 
as  he  sank  back  into  a  chair  opposite  that  taken  by 
Mr.  Gadgett.  "In  the  London  Telephone  Directory 
alone  there  are  fourteen  columns  of  us,  including 
twenty-four  gentlemen  who  frankly  confess  to  the  name 
of  James.  I  looked  it  up  myself.  It's  a  terrible  in- 
heritance, Mr.  Gadgett,  a  name  such  as  mine." 

Whilst  Smith  was  speaking,  Mr.  Gadgett  had  opened 


MR.  GADGETT  PAYS  A  CALL  243 

a  small  leather  attache-case  he  carried.  Taking  out 
a  photograph,  he  gazed  at  it  intently,  then  across  at 
Smith,  and  finally  back  again  at  the  photograph. 

"I  enquired  at  The  Grange  for  Mr.  Alfred  War- 
ren," he  said  at  length,  "and  I  was  told  to  come  here." 

"That  would  be  Willis,"  said  Smith  easily.  "You 
never  can  be  sure  what  Willis  will  be  up  to.  If  you 
had  enquired  for  the  Grand  Llama  himself,  you  would, 
/-in  all  probability,  have  been  told  he  was  here." 

"Am  I  to  take  it  that  you  maintain  you  are  not 
Mr.  Alfred  Warren?"  Mr.  Gadgett's  eyes  returned 
to  the  photograph. 

"There  would  be  no  risk  whatever  in  such  an  as- 
sumption." 

"Then  why,  may  I  ask,  was  I  sent  here  when  I 
enquired  for  Mr.  Warren?"  he  demanded,  his  eyes 
snapping  venomously. 

"That  involves  psycho-analysis  and  family  history," 
was  the  reply;  "The  psycho-analysis  being  necessary 
to  interpret  Willis,  and  the  family  history  to  explain 
the  disappearance  of  Mr.  Warren  some  seven  years 
ago,  and  the  discovery  of  James  Smith  a  few  days 


since." 


"In  the  village  I  was  given  to  understand  that  Mr. 
Warren  had  returned  after  a  long  absence,  and  was 
living  here.  Is  that  correct?" 

"Which  statement  do  you  wish  me  to  verify?"  en- 
quired Smith.  "That  you  were  assured  of  the  cir- 
cumstance, or  that  the  circumstance  of  which  you  were 
assured  is  an  actual  fact?" 

"We  are  wasting  time,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Gadgett,  with 
a  touch  of  asperity  in  his  voice.  "The  question  is, 
are  you  or  are  you  not  Mr.  Alfred  Warren?" 

"I  have  just  told  you  that  my  name  is  James  Smith,'* 


244        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

was  the  reply.  "If  I  am  James  Smith,  Mr.  Gadgett, 
you,  as  a  lawyer,  must  realise  that  I  cannot  be  Alfred 
Warren.  May  I  in  turn  enquire  why  it  is  you  are 
subjecting  me  to  this  cross-examination?" 

"I  must  first  establish  your  identity  before  I  can 
proceed,"  said  Mr.  Gadgett. 

"Then  I  fear  you  are  in  for  a  troublesome  business," 
was  the  smiling  reply.  "For  the  past  week  I  have 
been  endeavouring  to  do  that  self-same  thing;  but  with 
the  most  miserable  results.  I  suspect  that  nothing 
short  of  an  Act  of  Parliament  or  Direct  Action  can 
establish  my  identity,  because — " 

"Because,"  prompted  Mr.  Gadgett. 

"Because  I  don't  seem  to  have  an  identity,  at  least, 
not  one  about  which  there  appears  to  be  any  unanimity 
of  opinion.  I'm  a  sort  of  stormy  petrel.  Wherever 
I  go  I  seem  to  excite  faction.  In  this  peaceful  little 
village,  for  instance,  I've  aroused  the  devil's  own  dis- 
sensions. Nothing  like  it  has  "been  known  since  the 
Wars  of  the  Roses." 

For  nearly  a  minute  Mr.  Gadgett  sat  pondering, 
the  photograph  in  his  hand,  his  eyes  shifting  restlessly, 
always  avoiding  Smith's  steady  gaze. 

"Sir!"  he  said  at  length,  "I  venture  to  suggest  that 
you  are  deliberately  adopting  an  attitude  of  verbal 
ambiguity,  and  it  is  my  duty  to  warn  you  that  such 
a  line  of  defence  will  not  in  any  way  benefit  you." 

"And  I,  on  my  part,"  said  Smith,  with  a  smile  that 
gave  no  indication  of  what  was  to  follow,  "warn  you, 
Mr.  Gadgett,  that  unless  you  are  reasonably  civil,  I 
shall  throw  you  out  of  that  window  into  Miss  Lip- 
scombe's  favourite  bed  of  begonias.  They're  mostly 
prize  plants,  by  the  way." 


MR.  GADGETT  PAYS  A  CALL  245 

Mr.  Gadgett  started  back  in  his  chair,  his  little  eyes 
blinking  apprehensively.  He  glanced  furtively  about 
him,  as  if  in  search  of  a  line  of  retreat. 

"That  is  a  threat  of  violence,  sir,"  he  blustered, 
"an  attempt  to  intimidate." 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  is  neither  the  one  nor  the 
other.  It  is  just  a  prophecy.  We  Smiths  are  like 
that,  at  least  those  of  us  who  are  not  hyphenated. 
It's  no  doubt  due  to  our  sensitiveness,"  he  continued, 
as  Mr.  Gadgett  remained  silent.  "The  least  suggestion 
of  discourtesy  and — "  He  paused  significantly. 

"I  am  sorry  if — "  began  Mr.  Gadgett. 

"Don't  be  sorry,"  said  Smith,  "just  be  explicit." 

He  was  enjoying  Mr.  Gadgett's  embarrassment,  so 
obviously  tinctured  with  fear.  He  sat  blinking  his  eyes 
uncertainly,  looking  more  ferret-like  than  ever.  It  was 
clear  he  found  some  difficulty  in  deciding  his  mode 
of  procedure.  Smith  sat  gazing  at  him,  like  a  good- 
humoured  mastiff  at  a  small  dog  that  has  barked  a 
challenge. 

"To  prevent  any  misunderstanding,  Mr.  Gadgett,'* 
continued  Smith,  "I  think  it  only  right  to  say  that  I 
used  to  be  regarded  as  a  light  heavy-weight  of  some 
promise." 

"That,  I  suggest,  is  a  covert  threat  of  violence," 
said  Mr.  Gadgett. 

"On  the  contrary,  it  is  merely  a  little  piece  of  bio- 
graphical information  that  may  tend  to  preserve  the 
peace  the  King  is  supposed  to  value  so  much.  You 
have  rather  an  unfortunate  manner,  Mr.  Gadgett," 
he  added,  still  smiling.  "Doubtless  it  is  unintentional." 

"I  repeat,"  said  Mr.  Gadgett  at  length,  "that  if  I 
have  said  anything  calculated  to  cause  you  irritation 
or  annoyance — "  He  paused. 


246        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

"You  cannot  repeat  what  you  have  not  already 
stated,"  said  Smith  evenly.  "As  a  matter  of  fact,  your 
presence  causes  me  both." 

"I'm  sorry — "  began  Mr.  Gadgett. 

"You've  just  said  that."  Smith  glanced  significantly 
at  the  watch  on  his  wrist.  "Don't  you  think  you  might 
take  the  plunge,  and  tell  me  why  you  have  called?" 

"I  came,"  said  Mr.  Gadgett,  "to  interview  the — 
er- — gentleman  who  is  masquer — who  is  known  here  as 
Mr.  Alfred  Warren." 

"I  gathered  as  much  from  your  previous  remarks/' 
was  the  dry  retort.  Smith  was  determined  to  render 
him  no  assistance.  "As  a  lawyer  you  will  realise  that 
the  actual  expression  of  other  people's  opinions  does 
not  involve  me  in  any  liability." 

"If  you  are  not  he  who  is  known  in  this  neighbour- 
hood as  Mr.  Alfred  Warren,  then  where  can  I  find 
the  gentleman  in  question?" 

Smith  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  the  air  of  one 
who  acknowledges  that  the  problem  is  beyond  him. 

"Mr. — er — Smith,  I  have  decided,  for  the  purpose 
of  my  visit,  to  assume  that  you  are  the  gentleman  who 
has  been  identified  in  this  neighbourhood  as  Mr.  Alfred 
Warren." 

Mr.  Gadgett  paused,  and  glanced  swiftly  at  Smith, 
who,  however,  evinced  no  emotion. 

"It  is,  therefore,"  he  continued,  with  more  assurance 
in  his  voice,  "it  is,  therefore,  my  duty  to  inform  you 
that  some  years  ago,  before  going  er — abroad,  the 
real  Mr.  Alfred  Warren  placed  his  affairs  in  the  hands 
of  my  firm,  with  instructions  to  take  such  steps  as 
we  may  deem  necessary  to  protect  his  interests  and 
reputation.  Do  I  make  myself  clear?" 

"Abundantly." 


MR.  GADGETT  PAYS  A  CALL  247 

"Have  you  anything  to  say?"  Mr.  Gadgett's  for- 
mer assurance  of  manner  was  returning  to  him. 

"I  was  wondering,"  said  Smith  quietly,  "if  that  little 
bit  about  protecting  his  reputation  was  your  idea  or 
his." 

"You  must  understand,  Mr.  Smith,  that,  presuming 
I  am  right  in  my  assumption  that  you  are  lie  who  is 
generally  accepted  as  Mr.  Alfred  Warren,  you  are 
running  a  very  considerable  risk." 

"We  all  run  risks,  Mr.  Gadgett,"  said  Smith  evenly, 
"the  world  is  full  of  them.  That  is  why  we  buy  news- 
papers, to  insure  against  the  mere  risk  of  living.  Quite 
recently  I  played  cricket  in  flannel  reach-me-downs." 

"That  is  not  relevant  to  the  matter  under  discus- 
sion." 

"On  the  contrary,  it  is  peculiarly  relevant.  You 
think  of  my  risks,  I  think  of  yours.  I  should  hate  to 
see  you  take  a  header  into  that  begonia-bed."  Smith 
significantly  felt  the  biceps  of  his  left  arm. 

Mr.  Gadgett  rose  and  performed  a  strategic  move- 
ment that  placed  the  chair,  on  which  he  had  been  sitting, 
between  him  and  Smith. 

"We  do  not  wish  to  be  unduly  precipitate  in  any 
action  we  take,"  he  said  over  the  back  of  the  chair. 

"I  commend  your  wisdom,"  was  the  dry  rejoinder. 

"It  is  that  fact  which  accounts  for  my  presence  here 
to-day,"  continued  Mr.  Gadgett. 

Smith  nodded. 

"I  have  it  in  my  power  to  prove  that  you  are  not 
Mr.  Warren,"  announced  Mr.  Gadgett,  with  the  air  of 
a  man  who  is  playing  a  trump  card. 

"Mr.  Gadgett,"  said  Smith  impressively,  "you  are 
the  man  I  have  been  looking  for.  If  you  can  do  as. 


248        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

you  say,  then  the  moving  of  mountains  is  a  mere 
bagatelle." 

"Have  you,  Mr. — er — Smith,  anything  to  say  before 
I  take  my  departure?" 

"Nothing,"  said  Smith,  glancing  once  more  at  his 
wrist-watch,  "except  to  thank  you  for  calling,"  he 
added. 

"In  the  light  of  anything  that  may  subsequently 
transpire,"  continued  Mr.  Gadgett,  as  he  backed  to- 
wards the  door,  "you  will  recall  that  I  approached 
you  with  a  view  to  hearing  any  explanation  you  might 
have  to  make,  and,  er — see  if  a  satisfactory  settlement 
could  be  arrived  at." 

"I  most  certainly  shall." 

"I  have  sent  two  letters  to  Mr.  Alfred  Warren  at 
The  Grange.  Did  you  receive  them?" 

"Mr.  Warren  has  not  authorised  me  to  deal  with 
his  correspondence." 

"I  take  it — "  began  Mr.  Gadgett. 

"Don't!"  said  Smith,  "it's  safer." 

"I  am  afraid  we  are  not  progressing,"  said  Mr. 
Gadgett,  who  had  apparently  forgotten  his  intention 
of  terminating  the  interview. 

"I  quite  agree  with  you." 

"You  will,  er — pardon  me,  Mr. — er — Smith,  if  I 
say  that  you  are  now  faced  with  a  matter  requiring  the 
most  careful  and  well-considered  judgment.  I  will  add 
that  I  apologise  for  any  offence  I  may  unwittingly  have 
caused,  and — "  He  paused. 

"Enough,  Mr.  Gadgett,"  said  Smith.  "I  think  you 
may  now  safely  resume  your  chair." 

Acting  on  the  hint,  Mr.  Gadgett  slid  round  the  chair 
with  obvious  relief. 


MR.  GADGETT  PAYS  A  CALL  249 

"It  has  come  to  our  knowledge,  Mr. — er — Smith — " 

"Smith  without  the  'er'  sounds  better,"  said  Sm'th 
evenly. 

"That  you  recently  threatened  a  gentleman  with 
violence,"  continued  Mr.  Gadgett. 

"You  mean  Mr.  Bluggs,"  suggested  Smith.  The 
process  of  sweetening  the  memory  of  the  absent  Alfred 
promised  to  be  more  interesting  than  had  at  first  ap- 
peared likely. 

"I  refer  to  Mr.  Jonathan  Bluggs,  and  I  feel  I  ought 
to  inform  you  that  such  threats  are  calculated  to  preju- 
dice your  case.  It  was — " 

"A  holly-bush,"  came  the  smiling  interruption. 
"You  see,  we  were  some  way  from  the  begonia-bed; 
besides,  he  was  peculiarly  offensive." 

"You  realise,  of  course,  that  it  is  within  Mr.  Bluggs's 
power  to  have  you  bound  over,"  said  Mr.  Gadgett. 
He  gave  Smith  the  impression  of  one  talking  to  gain 
time,  apparently  with  a  view  to  deciding  his  line  of 
action. 

As  Smith  made  no  comment,  he  turned  once  more 
to  the  likeness  he  still  held  in  his  hand. 

"The  likeness  is  certainly  very  remarkable,"  he  said. 

"Physically,  it  is  almost  uncanny,"  remarked  Smith 
drily. 

Mr.  Gadgett  winced  a  little.  He  was  still  obviously 
nervous,  and  Smith  realised  that  he  desired  to  say 
something  which  he  found  it  difficult  to  frame  in  words. 

"Were  you — ?"  he  began,  then  paused. 

"Was  I?"  interrogated  Smith  with  polite  indiffer- 
ence. 

"You  have  been  at  Little  Bilstead  for — for  several 
days?" 


250        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

"This  is  the  eighth  to  be  exact,"  was  the  rejoinder. 

"Have  you  during  that  time,  er — met  with  any — ?" 
He  paused  again.  "I  mean,  have  you — has  your  stay 
been  a  pleasant  one?" 

"Eminently!"  said  Smith  with  a  smile.  "At  first 
I  was  regarded  a  little  coldly,  except  at  The  Grange, 
where  Willis  spent  much  of  his  time  in  following  me 
about  with  a  decanter." 

"And  outside  The  Grange?"  enquired  Mr.  Gadgett 
hastily. 

"Fair  to  medium.  I  made  friends  with  the  vicar, 
have  been  denounced  by  a  peppery  old  colonel,  man- 
aged to  invest  the  dislike  of  a  pretty  girl,  knocked  up 
one  short  of  the  century  at  cricket,  and — well,  that's 
about  all  so  far." 

"Will  you  permit  me  to  put  a  few  questions  to  you, 
Mr.  er— Smith?" 

"With  pleasure,"  said  Smith,  amused  at  the  change 
in  Mr.  Gadgett's  tone.  "By  the  way,  you've  already 
put  two  or  three." 

"Er — have  you  any  reason  to  believe — ?"  began 
Mr.  Gadgett.  He  paused,  then,  as  if  deciding  upon 
another  course  of  action,  he  said,  "I  will  be  quite  frank 
with  you,  Mr.  Smith."  This  time  he  got  the  name 
without  the  preliminary  "er." 

"Frankness  is  always  refreshing." 

There  was  a  short  pause.  From  the  ferrety  snap- 
ping of  Mr.  Gadgett's  eyes,  Smith  realised  that  he 
was  about  to  spring  his  mine.  He  had  clearly  been 
working  up  to  something  dramatic. 

"Are  you  aware,  Mr.  Smith,"  he  began,  emphasising 
the  name,  "that  there  is  a  warrant  out  for  the  arrest 
of  Mr.  Warren?" 


MR.  GADGETT  PAYS  A  CALL  251 

"The  deuce  there  is!"  cried  Smith,  startled  in  spite 
of  himself,  and  sitting  up  straight  in  his  chair.  This 
was  an  aspect  of  the  sweetening  process  he  had  not 
bargained  for. 

Mr.  Gadgett  displayed  the  yellowness  of  two  par- 
ticularly evil-looking  canines.  His  mine  was  a  success. 

"It  was  issued  six  years  ago,"  he  said,  "and,  as  I 
happen  to  know,  it  has  never  been  withdrawn." 

"And  why  do  you  come  to  tell  me  this?"  enquired 
Smith,  a  stern  look  coming  into  his  eyes. 

"I,  er — we  may  possibly  be  of  assistance  to  you," 
was  the  fluid  rejoinder.  "In  our  professional  capacity," 
he  added. 

"And  why  was  the  warrant  issued?" 

"In  connection  with  the  death  of  a  girl  named  Thir- 
kettle.  Before  she  died  she  made  a  statement,"  he 
added,  with  a  leer. 

"I  think  you  have  given  me  sufficient  data  to  be 
going  on  with,"  said  Smith,  rising.  There  was  a 
whiteness  at  the  corners  of  his  set  mouth  that  caused 
Mr.  Gadgett  some  anxiety. 

"I  think  that  is  all  I  need  trouble  you  with  at  pres- 
ent," he  said  as  he  rose,  having  first  stowed  away  the 
photograph  in  his  case.  "We  do  not  propose  to  take 
action  for  a  week  or  ten  days,"  he  added. 

"I  shall  not  forget." 

"You  have  our  address,"  said  Mr.  Gadgett,  signifi- 
cantly. 

"I  have,"  said  Smith.     "I'm  glad  you  came." 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Smith,"  and  Mr.  Gadgett  made  a 
repulsive  movement  with  his  dust-coloured  lips,  which 
his  intimates  would  have  recognised  as  a  smile.  "So 
am  I." 


252        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

"Because,"  said  Smith  quietly,  "you  are  the  first 
blackmailer  I  have  ever  met." 

Mr.  Gadgett's  jaw  fell.  For  a  moment  he  gazed  at 
Smith,  fear  in  his  eyes. 

"That  is — "  He  stopped  suddenly,  and  began  to 
back  nervously  towards  the  door.  There  was  some- 
thing in  Smith's  look  that  suggested  Miss  Lipscombe's 
bed  of  begonias. 

"You  know  Alfred  Warren  to  be  dead." 

It  was  a  shot  at  a  venture;  but  in  the  apprehensive 
look  in  Mr.  Gadgett's  turbid  eyes  Smith  thought  he 
saw  a  confirmation  of  his  words.  The  next  moment 
Mr.  Gadgett  had  slid  round  the  door  and  disappeared. 

"So  that  was  why  A.  W.  bolted,"  murmured  Smith, 
as  he  stepped  out  from  the  French  windows  on  to  the 
lawn.  There  was  something  about  the  moral  atmos- 
phere of  Mr.  Gadgett  that  made  fresh  air  essential. 

He  turned  and  walked  slowly  down  the  drive,  his 
face  grave.  This  process  of  sweetening  the  memory 
of  the  absent  Alfred  seemed  likely  to  involve  him  in 
serious  complications.  It  was  not  pleasant  to  con- 
template arrest;  but  on  such  a  charge  it  was  intolerable. 
He  could  prove  his  innocence  of  the  crime  and  of 
being  Alfred;  still  there  was  all  the  unpleasantness 
and  the  scandal. 

It  was  obvious  that  the  unspeakable  Gadgett  was 
out  for  blackmail,  disguised  as  some  form  of  profes- 
sional service.  He  had  heard  of  such  solicitors;  but 
had  never  believed  they  really  existed.  Such  forms 
of  animal  life  ought  to  be  trodden  on,  he  decided. 

Was  Alfred  Warren  alive  or  dead?  That  was  the 
question.  The  startled  look  in  Gadgett's  eyes,  coupled 
with  the  hurried  nature  of  his  departure,  certainly 


MR.  GADGETT  PAYS  A  CALL  253 

looked  suspicious;  but  suspicion  was  not  proof.  Then 
how  had  he  got  to  know  about  Bluggs?  Was  he  in 
league  with  that  gold-toothed  abomination?  Taken 
all  round  he  was  in  the  very — 

He  stopped  suddenly  at  the  sound  of  a  cry,  some- 
thing between  a  yelp  and  a  scream,  which  appeared  to 
come  from  somewhere  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the 
vicarage  gates. 

Hurrying  along  the  drive,  he  passed  out  into  the 
road,  just  as  another  yelp  broke  the  drowsy  stillness 
of  the  summer  afternoon.  This  time  it  developed  inta 
a  howl. 

Smith  gazed  along  the  road  in  the  direction  of  The 
Grange.  As  far  as  the  eye  could  reach  there  was  no 
spot  or  blemish  upon  its  ribboned  whiteness.  Obvi- 
ously the  drama  was  being  enacted  in  the  opposite  direc- 
tion, where  the  road  took  a  sharp  turn  towards  the 
village. 

Running  the  few  steps  necessary  to  gain  a  view 
round  the  bend,  Smith  was  met  by  a  sight  and  sound 
that  brought  him  once  more  to  a  standstill. 

There  in  the  middle  of  the  road  lay  Mr.  Gadgett, 
at  least  he  judged  it  to  be  Mr.  Gadgett,  the  hat  and 
attache-case  that  lay  a  few  yards  off  were  certainly 
his.  Mr.  Gadgett  himself  seemed  to  be  somewhere 
beneath  a  body  infinitely  larger  than  his  own,  encased 
in  a  startling  scheme  of  brown-and-white  checks. 

Mr.  Gadgett  appeared  to  be  engaged  in  screaming 
for  mercy,  invoking  the  aid  alike  of  God  and  man, 
whilst  his  thin  legs  worked  like  flails. 

It  was  obvious  that  Mr.  Gadgett  was  getting  it  in 
the  neck. 

Hastening  forward,  Smith  seized  a  handful  of  the 


254  THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

checked  material,  and  hauled  with  all  his  might.  There 
was  a  gasping  sound  from  the  upper  part  of  the  mound 
and,  a  moment  later,  a  foxy  little  figure  wriggled  from 
beneath  the  mountain  of  checks. 

It  was  indeed  Mr.  Gadgett,  and  a  very  agile  Mr. 
Gadgett.  Before  Smith  quite  realised  what  was  hap- 
pening, he  had  gathered  up  his  hat  and  case,  and  was 
legging  it  down  the  road  towards  the  village  as  if  the 
Inquisition  itself  were  after  him. 

Turning  to  the  brown-and-white-checked  assailant, 
whose  collar  he  had  been  grasping,  Smith,  by  a  move- 
ment of  his  wrist,  swung  him  round. 

"Peters!" 

He  released  his  hold  and  stood  gazing  at  the  man 
in  sheer  bewilderment. 

"What  the  devil  does  this  mean?"  he  demanded, 
his  eyes  still  upon  the  perspiring  face  from  which  an 
auburn  moustache  stood  out  with  astonishing  sudden- 
ness. 

"I  am  taking  a  holiday,  sir,"  was  the  reply  of  the 
man  whom  Eric  had  pinked,  and  Peters  proceeded  to 
draw  a  large  bandana  handkerchief  from  his  pocket 
and  mop  his  streaming  forehead.  He  was  a  big  man 
and  unaccustomed  to  any  form  of  violent  exercise. 

"And  is  this  your  idea  of  a  holiday,"  demanded 
Smith,  "battering  the  life  out  of  a  man  half  your 
own  size?" 

"That  was  Private  Gadgett,  sir,"  he  said,  as  calm 
as  if  in  his  own  pantry. 

"That,  Peters,"  said  Smith  severely,  "is  Mr.  Grim- 
thorpe  Gadgett,  of  Gadgett,  Grandson  and  Gadgett, 
solicitors  of  New  Court,  London,  W.C.,  as  he  has  just 
informed  me.  What  the  devil  are  you  doing?" 


MR.  GADGETT  PAYS  A  CALL  255 

In  what  appeared  to  be  one  movement,  Peters  had 
returned  the  handkerchief  to  his  pocket,  produced  a 
notebook,  and  was  apparently  engaged  in  making  a 
note  of  something. 

"I  am  taking  down  the  address,  sir,"  he  said,  with- 
out raising  his  eyes  from  the  page. 

"Why?" 

"It  will  be  useful,  sir." 

"The  devil  it  will !"  cried  Smith.     "How?" 

"Private  Gadgett  deserted  from  our  regiment  one 
night  when  out  on  patrol,  sir,  in  the  final  advance," 
continued  Peters,  "and  the  Huns — the  Germans,  sir," 
he  corrected  himself,  "surprised  a  working-party  and 
killed  six  men." 

"The  swine !"  The  words  broke  from  between 
Smith's  clenched  teeth,  and  he  was  not  thinking  of  the 
Huns. 

"My  company  commander  ordered  me,  if  ever  I 
caught  him,  to — to  smash  his  face  in.  I  was  doing 
it  when  you  interrupted  me,  sir,"  he  added. 

"Peters,"  said  Smith  gravely,  "I  owe  you  an  apol- 

ogy." 

"Thank  you,  sir." 

"By  the  look  of  what  he  took  away  with  him,  how- 
ever, you  seem  to  have  achieved  your  mission,"  he 
added  drily. 

Peters  looked  doubtful.  It  was  evident  that  in  his 
code  of  ethics,  a  man  with  a  smashed  face  ought  not 
to  be  able  to  run  away. 

"But  what  the  devil  do  you  mean  by  turning  up 
here?"  Smith  demanded,  suddenly  recalling  the  strange- 
ness of  the  encounter. 

"I  was  in  pursuit  of  a  boy,  sir." 


256        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

Smith  stared  at  him. 

"You  don't  happen  to  have  turned  Bolshevist,  I 
suppose?"  he  enquired. 

"He  assaulted  me  with  a  catapult,"  said  Peters  with 
expressionless  face. 

"I  don't  wonder  at  it,  in  that  get  up,"  smiled  Smith, 
venturing  a  guess  at  the  identity  of  the  "boy."  "It's 
like  a  musical  comedy." 

"The  boy  escaped,  sir,"  continued  Peters.  "It  was 
then  that  I  saw  Private  Gadgett  and — " 

"Proceeded  to  smash  his  face,"  suggested  Smith, 
as  Peters  paused.  "But  that  does  not  account  for 
your  turning  up  here  in  this  fashion,  and  in  those 
extraordinary  clothes." 

"I  developed  engine-trouble,  sir— my  motor-cycle, 
sir,"  he  added. 

"You  invariably  do." 

"I  think,  sir,  I  mentioned  that  I  was  going  to  Nor- 
folk because — " 

"Your  old  bus  wouldn't  climb  hills,"  broke  in  Smith 
with  a  smile. 

"I  have  certainly  had  a  considerable  amount  of  trou- 
ble with  my  motor-cycle,"  agreed  Peters.  "I  think  it 
must  be  the  petrol." 

"The  avoirdupois,  you  mean." 

"Sir?"  interrogated  Peters. 

"When  you  put  about  fifteen  stone  on  a  broken- 
winded  motor-bike  like  yours,  Peters,  and  then  expect 
it  to  take  a  hill  at  a  canter,  you're  asking  for  trouble." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Peters  dutifully. 

"Incidentally,  Peters,  I  am  in  the  very  deuce  of  a 
hole,"  Smith  continued.  "I  have  not  only  been  written 
off  as  a  bad  debt  by  my  uncle;  but  I  have  also  been 


MR.  GADGETT  PAYS  A  CALL  257 

proclaimed  the  returned  prodigal  of  Little  Bilstead, 
and  it's  the  very  devil." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Peters,  his  face  immobile  as  the 
Houses  of  Parliament. 

"But  I  can't  tell  you  now,  there  isn't  time." 

"I  feel  I  ought  to  inform  you,  sir,  that  Sir  John  has 
written  to  me." 

"Written  to  you !" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Then  how  the  devil  did  he  know — " 

"Soon  after  I  started,  I  developed  engine — " 

"Oh,  damn  your  engine-trouble,  Peters  !  Let  us  take 
it  for  granted." 

"Certainly,  sir,"  said  Peters  in  his  best  professional 
manner.  "I  returned  to  London  for  certain  repairs, 
and  I  took  the  opportunity  of  calling  at  the  flat,  sir, 
where  I  found  a  number  of  letters." 

"And  some  bills?"  suggested  Smith. 

"A  large  proportion  of  the  correspondence  bore 
evidence  of  having  come  from  tradesmen,"  admitted 
Peters.  "There  was  also  a  letter  from  Sir  John  ask- 
ing for  your  address,  sir." 

"I  hope  you  wrote  and  told  him  I  had  gone  to  the 
devil." 

"No,  sir.  I  informed  him  that  you  had  entered  upon 
a  new  life  of  usefulness." 

"A  new  life  of  what?"  he  demanded. 

"I  mentioned,  sir,  that  you  hoped  by  industry  and 
application  and  attention  to  detail,  that  you  would 
merit — " 

"You've  been  reading  some  infernal  tradesman's 
circular,  Peters.  What  the  deuce  do  you  mean  by 
writing  such  utter  balderdash  to  Sir  John?" 


258        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

"I  thought  it  would  probably  appeal  to  him,  sir," 
said  Peters,  as  devoid  of  expression  as  a  barrel-piano. 
"If  I  may  say  so,  Sir  John  is  very  much  attached  to 
you,  sir." 

"Peters,  you're  indulging  in  what  the  Americans 
call  'sob  stuff.'  You've  been  reading  The  Lamplighter 
or  A.  Peep  Behind  the  Scenes.  In  the  idiom  of  the 
modern  flapper,  you're  getting  soppy." 

"I'm  sorry,  sir." 

"You  need  not  be,  Peters.  It's  an  emotional  state 
largely  due  to  films.  Did  my  uncle  say  what  he  wanted 
me  for?" 

"I  think,  sir,  he  found  his  heart  softening." 

"Like  your  brain,  Peters,"  smiled  Smith.  "What 
are  your  plans  now?" 

"For  the  moment,  sir,  I  have  no  plans.  I  have 
to  return  to  Norwich  to  get  a  new  magneto.  I  think 
that  is  the  cause  of  the  trouble  I  have  with  the  engine." 

"You  can  do  better,"  said  Smith  with  sudden  in- 
spiration. "You  can  go  to  town  and  get  me  some 
clothes." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"You  know  what  you  packed.  I've  wrecked  the 
rain-coat  in  climbing  a  gate,  and  the  suit  I  wore  has 
ceased  to  be  a  suit,  and  is  merely  a  study  in  exposure. 
When  you  get  back,  come  up  to  the  vicarage  and  ask 
for  the  keys  of  the  church,  then  we  can  arrange  to 
smuggle  the  things  in." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Peters  as  if  he  were  being  asked 
for  a  whisky-and-soda. 

"Now  you  had  better  slip  off,"  said  Smith.  "It 
won't  do  for  us  to  be  seen  together." 

"No,  sir,"  said  Peters  vaguely. 


MR.  GADGETT  PAYS  A  CALL  259 

"Great  Gulliver!"  Smith  cried  suddenly.  "Why, 
Peters,  you're  the  deus  ex  machina  of  this  adventure." 

"Am  I,  sir?" 

"You  most  certainly  are,"  he  assured  him.  "You'll 
have  to  follow  up  this  Gadgett  fellow,"  he  paused,  to 
see  the  effect  of  the  announcement. 

"That  was  my  intention,  sir,"  said  Peters. 

"The  deuce  it  was !" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"And  you  will  exert  such  influence  as  you  possess 
with  ex-Private  Gadgett,"  continued  Smith,  "to  extract 
from  him  full  particulars,  documentary  or  otherwise, 
as  to  the  death  or  present  whereabouts  of  one  Alfred 
Warren  of  The  Grange,  Little  Bilstead,  that's  where 
we  now  are." 

"Very  good,  sir!"  and  Peters  once  more  drew  forth 
his  notebook. 

"If  he  is  difficult,  suggest  the  War  Office  and,  fail- 
ing that,  hint  at  publishing  the  story  of  his  desertion." 

"Very  good,  sir,"  repeated  Peters,  as  he  replaced 
the  pencil  in  the  slot  at  the  back  of  his  notebook  and 
returned  it  to  his  pocket,  a  baleful  look  in  his  promi- 
nent eyes. 

"And,  Peters." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"After  you  have  obtained  the  information  I  require,, 
you  can  then  get  to  work  upon  his  face." 

"Thank  you,  sir.    Will  that  be  all,  sir?" 

"By  the  way,  how  long  will  it  take  you  to  get  to 
Jermyn  Street  and  back?"  he  enquired  casually. 

"I  think,  sir,  I  ought  to  do  it  in  a  week,"  said 
Peters  gravely.  "If  the  engine-trouble  doesn't  get 
worse,  sir." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

ERIC   PLAYS  A  PART 


"f  SAY,  you  haven't  been — "  Eric  paused  and, 
screwing  up  his  eyebrows,  regarded  Smith  with 
the  air  of  one  who  finds  it  difficult  to  express 
what  is  in  his  mind. 

"I  haven't  been?"  queried  Smith. 

"You  know  I  told  you  that  you'd  find  Marjie  a — " 

"A  regular  old  water-jump,"  suggested  Smith,  as 
the  boy  paused  once  more.  "You  most  certainly  did, 
Eric." 

"You  know  she's  frightfully  dece,"  he  added  hastily, 
as  if  in  his  previous  words  he  had  been  guilty  of  dis- 
loyalty, "but — "  Again  he  paused. 

"But  what?"  enquired  Smith. 

"You  see,"  Eric  continued,  after  frowning  at  Smith 
for  several  seconds,  the  sun  was  in  his  eyes  and  he 
was  puzzled  how  to  proceed.  "You  see,  I'm  afraid 
she  doesn't  altogether  like  you — yet,"  he  added. 

"I  too  had  begun  to  suspect  it,"  said  Smith  drily. 

"Well,  you  see,"  cried  Eric,  his  brow  clearing. 
"We've  got  to  make  her." 

"We?" 

"Yes,  you  and  me.  You  see,"  he  continued  confi- 
dentially, "women  are  like  that.  They  never  like  the 
fellows  that  they — that  they  really  like." 

260 


ERIC  PLAYS  A  PART  261 

"I  see." 

"You  know,  Marjie  used  to  be  quite  all  right  until, 
until  she  grew  up."  Eric  was  finding  verbal  expression 
somewhat  difficult.  "Girls  are  like  that.  You  should 
have  seen  her  climb  trees,"  he  cried  with  enthusiasm. 
"She  would  go  up  like  a  monkey ;  but  now — "  His  look 
expressed  disgust. 

"Am  I  to  gather  that,  in  your  opinion,  my  learning 
to  climb  trees  with  agility  would  be  a  short  cut  to  your 
sister's  favour?"  enquired  Smith. 

"It  wouldn't  make  a  bit  of  diff,"  he  said,  shaking 
his  head  lugubriously.  "You  see,  you  did  paint  the 
place  a  bit  purp,  didn't  you?" 

Eric  gazed  at  Smith  with  screwed-up  eyes.  Loyalty 
demanded  that  there  should  be  some  excuse  for  Mar- 
jorie's  dislike. 

"You  mean  Warren,"  Smith  suggested. 

"Oh!  I  forgot  the  wang,"  grinned  the  boy.  "Any- 
how, you  can't  blame  Marjie,  can  you?" 

"Far  be  it  from  me  to  blame  any  one." 

"You  know,  I've  been  thinking  things  over,  and 
I've  come  to  the — I  think  you're  wrong." 

"Wrong?" 

"About  the  wang,  you  know,"  he  added  hastily. 
"I  got  the  idea  in  church  on  Sunday." 

Smith  nodded  encouragingly. 

"I  don't  often  take  notice  of  sermons,"  there  was 
apology  in  his  tone;  "but  as  it  was  about  the  sinner 
that  repenteth,  you  know,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 
It  reminded  me  of  you." 

"That  was  very  nice  of  you,"  said  Smith  gravely,  as 
he  proceeded  to  fill  his  pipe. 

"You  See — "  Eric  paused. 


262        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't,"  said  Smith  without  raising  his 
eyes  from  his  pipe-bowl. 

"I  say,  I  hope  I  don't  seem  impert"  There  was 
anxiety  in  his  voice. 

"On  the  contrary,  I  am  sure  you  are  going  to  be 
extremely  helpful,"  said  Smith,  looking  up  with  a 
smile.  "Carry  on." 

"If  you  were  to  own  up  and  say  you  really  are 
A.W.,"  he  burst  out,  "they'd  soon  forgive  you — even 
if  you  are  Mr.  Smith?"  he  added  apologetically.  "You 
see,  there'll  be  another  match  next  year,  and  those 
blighters  will  be  out  for  revenge,  and  I  want  you  to 
bowl  to  me  for  practice,"  he  added  ingenuously. 

"I  see,"  said  Smith,  as  he  struck  a  match  and  be- 
came absorbed  in  lighting  his  pipe. 

"You  never  know  just  what  Marjie  will  do,"  Eric 
continued,  with  the  air  of  one  who  has  experienced 
something  of  the  vagaries  of  a  woman's  temperament. 
"She  might  be  all  over  you  if  she  thought  you  were 
sorry."  He  paused  and  gazed  at  Smith  tentatively. 

"Sorry  for  what?"  he  queried. 

"Oh!  for — for  everything.  Of  course  I  don't  re- 
member much;  but  you  made  things  pretty  hot — I  mean 
A.W.  did,"  he  added  hastily,  looking  up  uncertainly 
at  Smith,  as  if  in  doubt  as  to  how  his  remarks  would 
be  received. 

"And  you  think,"  said  Smith,  "that  if  I  were  to  own 
up  to  being  an  unspeakable  blackguard,  I  might  be 
forgiven." 

"Oh!  I  say,  T  didn't  mean  that,  you  know,"  pro- 
tested Eric  hurriedly.  "You  know  girls  are  so  jolly 
funny.  Marjie'll  take  home  any  beastly  mongrel  if  it 
looks  miserable.  She  gets  it  from  the  dad — he's  a 
topper." 


ERIC  PLAYS  A  PART 

"In  other  words  you  suggest  that  I  should  stoop,  or 
rather  grovel,  to  conquer?" 

"I — "  began  Eric,  then  he  stopped.  Put  like  that, 
somehow,  the  idea  didn't  seem  quite  right.  "I'll  tell 
you  something,"  he  said  suddenly,  with  a  hasty  glance 
over  his  shoulder.  "There  used  to  be  a  girl  in  a  tuck- 
shop  at  Wilchester  that  I  was  awfully  gone  on.  She 
wouldn't  look  at  me  though,  just  tossed  her  head  and 
sniffed.  I  heard  afterwards  she  was  engaged  to  a 
plumber,  an  awful  cad.  One  day  I  cut  my  finger. 
Then  she  was  all  over  me.  After  that  I  had  to  hurt 
myself  once  a  week;  but  she  always  wanted  to  see  the 
damage." 

With  difficulty  Smith  restrained  a  smile  at  the  man- 
of- the- worldly  air  with  which  Eric  made  his  confes- 
sion. 

"But  just  where  does  what  you  call  'the  wang' 
come  in?"  he  enquired. 

"You  just  own  up,"  said  Eric,  after  a  slight  hesita- 
tion. '7  always  do — when  they  find  out,"  he  added, 
as  an  after- thought. 

"I'll  think  it  over,"  said  Smith  gravely.  "I  suppose 
cutting  my  finger  wouldn't  do?" 

Eric  shook  his  head,  then,  realising  that  Smith  was 
"pulling  his  tib,"  as  he  was  wont  to  express  it,  he 
grinned. 

"You  know  Marjie's  frightfully  funny,"  he  con- 
tinued. "Only  last  month  she  picked  up  a  dog  that  had 
got  run  over,  covered  in  mud  and  blood  it  was.  She 
spoilt  her  things — and  we're  not  rich,  you  know,"  he 
added,  to  give  point  to  the  story. 

"Eric,"  said  Smith  with  the  utmost  solemnity,  "I 
find  you  most  encouraging." 

For  a  moment  the  boy  gazed  at  him  doubtfully; 


264        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

but  seeing  not  even  the  flicker  of  a  smile  upon  Smith's 
grave  face,  he  took  heart. 

"You  just  try  it,"  he  advised.  "I  say,  you  will 
bowl  to  me?"  he  added  anxiously.  "I  must  get  used 
to  fast  bowling  by  next  year.  I  mean  'the  goods,' 
not  half-volleys  and  full-tosses  to  leg,"  he  added. 

UA  lot  will  of  course  depend  on  the  wang,"  said 
Smith  meditatively. 

"You  just  drop  it,  and  see  if  I'm  not  right,"  cried 
Eric,  with  a  sigh  of  relief  at  the  success  of  his  diplo- 
macy. "Now  I  must  tod,"  and  he  made  a  movement 
to  depart. 

"By  the  way,"  said  Smith.  "You  do  not  say  how 
I  had  best  proceed.  You  see,  I  scarcely  ever  see 
Marjorie." 

"You  be  at  the  edge  of  Buckdale  Wood  this  after- 
noon, just  after  four,  and  I'll  tell  you  then.  Near 
the  pond.  You  know  it,  don't  you?"  he  enquired 
anxiously. 

"Intimately,"  said  Smith.  "But  why  not  tell  me 
now?" 

"Can't.  Frightfully  busy.  S'long,"  and  with  that 
he  was  gone. 

"The  mercenary  young  scamp,"  muttered  Smith  as 
he  sucked  at  his  pipe,  "to  sell  a  sister  for  bowling- 
practice." 

II 

Smith  was  a  few  minutes  late  for  his  appointment 
with  Eric,  due  to  what  seemed  an  obvious  short  cut; 
but  a  dyke  intervened  and  he  had  been  forced  to  go 
back. 


ERIC  PLAYS  A  PART  265 

As  he  came  within  sight  of  the  wood,  he  was  sur- 
prised to  see  Marjorie  sitting  on  the  trunk  of  a  fallen 
tree,  with  Nero  grazing  contentedly  beside  her. 

At  the  sound  of  Smith's  approach,  Nero  raised  an 
alert  head.  Recognising  his  Sugar  Man,  he  gave  a 
little  snort  of  pleasure  and,  disregarding  his  mistress' 
sharp  "Come  here,  Nero,"  walked  to  meet  him. 

A  moment  later  he  was  nuzzling  Smith's  pockets  for 
sugar. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't — "  she  began,  and  then 
stopped. 

"Wish  I  wouldn't  what?"  he  smiled. 

"You  make  him  so  disobedient  with — with  sugar," 
she  replied. 

"Your  mistress  implies  that  you  do  not  love  me  for 
myself  alone,"  said  Smith,  lifting  the  horse's  muzzle 
from  the  region  of  his  pockets,  and  gazing  into  his 
large  liquid  eyes. 

Nero  stretched  forward  and  nibbled  Smith's  ear. 

"You  see,"  laughed  Smith,  "he  denies  it,"  and  he 
drew  three  lumps  of  sugar  from  his  pocket  and  held 
them  out  to  Nero,  who  proceeded  to  crunch  them  con- 
tentedly. 

"Have  you  seen  Eric?"  Marjorie  enquired,  as  she 
rose  and  glanced  at  her  wrist-watch,  a  little  impatiently 
he  thought.  "I  was  to  meet  him  here  at  four  o'clock. 
I'm  afraid  he  has  been  getting  into  mischief  again,  he 
was  so  mysterious  about  it." 

In  his  surprise,  Smith  was  on  the  point  of  telling  her 
that  he  too  had  an  appointment  with  Eric  by  the  edge 
of  Buckdale  Wood.  Fortunately  he  realised  in  time 
that  Eric  had  merely  taken  another  step  towards  en- 
suring continuous  fast-bowling  practice. 


266        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

"Eric?"  he  repeated  vaguely.  "I  saw  him  this  morn- 
ing." He  in  turn  glanced  at  his  watch.  It  was  a 
quarter-past-four. 

There  was  a  short  silence,  which  Nero  occupied  in 
a  further  investigation  of  Smith's  pockets.  He  was  by 
no  means  sure  that  the  bonanza  of  sugar  had  yet  been 
exhausted,  and  he  was  right. 

Marjorie  caught  the  reins  and  gave  them  a  tug; 
Nero  blew  through  his  lips  as  if  in  protest  at  such 
selfishness. 

"Oh !  please  make  him  come  away,  Mr.  Warren," 
she  pleaded.  "I  hate  hurting  him.  Nero,  don't  be 
so  naughty."  She  made  another  effort  to  pull  his 
head  from  the  vicinity  of  Smith's  pockets. 

Then  suddenly  she  laughed.  Smith  glanced  down 
at  her,  surprise  in  his  eyes. 

"It's  so  absurd,"  she  cried.  "Unless  you  do  some- 
thing, or  I  hurt  Nero,  it  seems  as  if  we  shall  both  be 
here  for  the  rest  of  the  day." 

Without  a  word,  Smith  drew  four  more  lumps  of 
sugar  from  his  pocket,  which  Nero  fastened  upon  in  a 
flash. 

"That's  all,"  he  cried. 

"If  you  see  Eric,  will  you  tell  him  I  have  gone 
home?"  said  Marjorie,  as  she  walked  to  Nero's  side. 
"He  may  have  been  detained,"  suggested  Smith,  ten- 
tatively. 

She  hesitated. 

"It's  only  twenty-minutes-past-four,"  he  added,  in- 
tent upon  following-up  the  advantage  he  felt  he  had 
gained.  "No  more!"  he  cried,  as  Nero,  having  eaten 
the  four  lumps  of  sugar  he  had  just  received,  was  pre- 


ERIC  PLAYS  A  PART  267 

paring  for  further  investigation.  Smith  turned  his 
coat-pockets  inside  out.  With  a  snort  of  contempt, 
Nero  turned  aside  and  proceeded  to  make  pretence  of 
grazing. 

"Don't  you  think  Nero  might  be  permitted  to  finish 
his  meal?"  he  suggested  tentatively. 

"He  eats  too  much,"  she  said,  with  a  little  smile. 
As  she  spoke  she  looked  across  at  her  favourite,  who 
was  moving  from  spot  to  spot,  taking  a  nibble  here 
and  a  nibble  there,  with  the  daintiness  of  a  Victorian 

belle. 

"Perhaps  grass  is  an  antidote  for  sugar,"  suggested 

Smith   gravely. 

She  glanced  at  him  quickly,  to  see  if  he  were  serious. 

"Couldn't  you  sit  down  just  for  ten  minutes?"  he 
said  tentatively.  "I  rather  want  to — '  He  paused. 
"Perhaps  Eric  has  been  detained,"  he  added  hastily. 

She  turned  to  the  tree-trunk,  reseating  herself  where 
he  had  found  her. 

He  selected  the  least  uncomfortable  spot  that  the 
irregularities  of  the  fallen  monarch  presented,  and 
followed  suit. 

He  had  longed  for  an  opportunity  such  as  this,  and 
now  it  had  presented  itself  he  was  at  a  loss  what  to  say. 

In  spite  of  himself  he  smiled. 

Marjorie  too  was  wondering  why  she  had  so  meekly 
accepted  the  invitation  of  the  man  she  had,  in  her  own 
mind,  vowed  to  avoid.  She'd  found  a  certain  em- 
barrassment in  his  silence.  At  his  smile  she  turned 
on  him  a  look  of  interrogation. 

A  sudden  Puck-like  instinct  prompted  him  to  tell 
her  the  truth. 


268        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

"I  was  wondering  why  I  asked  you  to  sit  down,"  he 
said,  keeping  his  gaze  on  the  pond,  upon  which  no 
ripple  broke  the  glass-like  surface. 

Her  eyes  widened  slightly;  his  remark  was  so  un- 
expected. 

"Was  it  not  to  wait  for  Eric?"  she  enquired,  with 
perfect  self-possession. 

She  continued  to  regard  him  steadily. 

He  could  have  sworn  that,  just  for  the  fraction  of 
a  second,  there  was  a  flash  of  mischief  in  her  eyes; 
but  it  was  gone  in  an  instant. 

"It  sounded  worse  than  it  really  was,"  he  said  with 
a  smile,  as  he  drew  out  his  cigarette-case  and  preferred 
it  to  her. 

She  made  a  movement  of  refusal  and,  a  moment 
later,  inclined  her  head  slightly  to  the  question  in  his 
eyes,  as  he  half  drew  a  cigarette  from  the  case.  With 
great  deliberation  he  proceeded  to  light  it. 

"I  suppose  what  I  really  wanted,"  he  said,  throwing 
away  the  match,  "was  a  quiet  talk,  without  the  feeling 
that  at  any  moment  you  could  flick  Nero's  rein  and 
disappear." 

"But  you  are  not  sure?"  she  queried  gravely. 

"Emotionally,  I  am  never  sure  of  anything,"  he 
replied.  "That  is  the  woman  in  me." 

"You  are  frank,  at  least."  The  even  tone  of  her 
voice  irritated  him. 

"Is  that  a  quality  or  a  defect?"  he  enquired. 

"Need  we  analyse  everything?"  she  countered. 

"When  I  was  first  mis-identified,"  he  said,  ignoring 
the  question  and  gazing  at  the  blue  spiral  that  rose 
through  the  still  air  from  his  cigarette,  "I  asked  Willis 
what  he  would  do  if  he  were  suddenly  accused  of  being 


ERIC  PLAYS  A  PART  269 

the  Lord  High  Admiral  of  Timbuctoo,  or  some  such 
place,  I  forget  the  exact  locality.  His  reply  was  that 
he  would  produce  people  to  prove  that  he  was  Lady 
Warren's  butler." 

He  paused;  but  as  she  showed  no  inclination  to 
speak,  merely  sitting  with  the  air  of  one  who  is  politely 
interested,  he  continued. 

uThat  shows  Willis  to  be  a  man  capable  of  rising  to 
a  great  occasion,"  he  continued.  "The  answer  was 
obviously  correct;  it  indicated  the  only  possible  course 
open  to  him  in  the  light  of  such  a  contingency." 

Her  instinct  was  to  ask  why  he  did  not  profit  by 
such  wisdom,  particularly  as  he  believed  in  it;  but 
she  remained  silent. 

"Nero,"  she  called,  as  he  showed  a  tendency  to 
explore  too  large  a  tract  of  turf.  Obedient  to  her  voice, 
there  being  no  sugar  to  lure  him  from  his  allegiance,  he 
turned  and  proceeded  to  graze  towards  where  they  were 
sitting. 

"Do  you  ever  do  things  for  which  you  can  find  no 
reasonable  explanation?"  he  enquired.  It  was  most 
infernally  awkward  approaching  a  difficult  subject  with 
one  who  gave  you  no  help. 

She  started  slightly  at  the  question.  She  could  find 
no  reasonable  excuse  for  sitting  on  a  tree-trunk  within 
a  few  feet  of  a  man  whom  she  was  pledged  cordially  to 
dislike,  as  she  told  herself  she  did  a  dozen  times  a  day. 

"Sometimes,"  she  conceded,  her  eyes  following  the 
slow  and  deliberate  movements  of  the  contented  Nero, 
who  from  time  to  time  cast  an  enquiring  glance  in 
her  direction,  as  if  to  assure  himself  that  she  were 
still  there. 

"That  is  the  case  with  me  at  the  present  moment," 


270        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

he  said  quietly.  "I  don't  know  why  I  am  here.  No,  I 
don't  mean  here  on  this  old  tree,"  he  added  hurriedly, 
as  she  made  a  movement  as  if  to  rise.  "I  mean  in 
Little  Bilstead." 

For  the  first  time  she  looked  interested,  at  the  same 
time  puzzled  by  his  remark. 

"Do  you  really  think,"  he  continued,  "that  any 
self-respecting  man  would  deliberately  endeavour  to 
be  taken  for  Alfred  Warren?"  He  paused,  and  as 
she  remained  silent  he  went  on. 

"Even  Willis  found  it  difficult  to  camouflage  the 
spots  of  the  family  leopard.  When  I  asked  him  a  few 
leading  questions  about  my  alleged  past,  it  was  quite  a 
picture  to  see  him  struggling  between  loyalty  to  the 
family  and  a  truthful  upbringing." 
Still  she  made  no  reply. 

"Then  there's  that  dear  old  creature  of  a  nurse, 
who  insists  on  delving  into  the  past  with  which  I  am 
credited,  for  reminiscences  of  the  most  intimate  and 
embarrassing  nature,  concerned  with  what  happened 
a  quarter  of  a  century  ago." 

This  time  Marjorie  smiled.  She  had  bitten  her  un- 
derlip  until  it  was  sore.  The  picture  of  Mrs.  HSggs, 
as  she  had  appeared  the  night  of  Smith's  arrival,  was 
too  irresistibly  funny,  even  for  her  present  mood  of 
austerity. 

"Can  you  imagine  any  man,"  he  persisted,  "deliber- 
ately assuming  the  rather  murky  past  of  another  for 
no  conceivable  reason?"     He  paused  for  her  to  reply. 
"Frankly  I  cannot,"  she  said  simply. 
"And  yet  that  is  what  you  attribute  to  me,"  he  con- 
tinued.    "According  to  all  I  hear,   it  even  involves 
danger  to  life  and  limb."    He  flicked  the  ash  from  his 


ERIC  PLAYS  A  PART  271 

cigarette  with  a  mechanical  fourth  finger,  a  habit  he 
had  contracted  in  the  trenches. 

"If  you  are  not  Mr.  Warren,"  she  began  in  a  low, 
even  tone,  "don't  you  think  you  have  been  a  little 
cruel?" 

"Cruel!"  he  exclaimed,  startled.    "Cruel  to  whom?" 

"To  Lady  Warren,"  was  the  quiet  reply.  "No  doubt 
half-a-dozen  people  have  written  telling  her  that  her 
son  has  returned  and — " 

"Good  Lord !"  he  cried.    "I  hadn't  thought  of  that" 

He  watched  her  as,  with  a  twig,  she  picked  at  a 
piece  of  moss  on  the  tree-trunk. 

"But  they  don't  know  her  address,"  he  protested, 
with  the  air  of  one  seeking  to  defend  himself  against 
what  he  knows  to  be  a  just  charge. 

"That  would  not  prevent  certain  people  writing," 
she  said,  and  he  noticed  that  she  stressed  the  "certain" 
ever  so  slightly.  "They  know  she  is  staying  in  Cape 
Town,  and  a  letter  addressed  to  the  shipping  company 
on  whose  boat  she  travelled  would  reach  her." 

"I  hadn't  thought  of  that,"  said  Smith,  tossing  away 
his  half-smoked  cigarette  and  proceeding  to  light  an- 
other. Here  was  an  entirely  new  factor  in  a  situation 
that  was  already  rich  in  embarrassments. 

"Do  you  think  I  ought  to  go  away  at  once?"  he 
asked,  conscious  of  the  unreasoning  eagerness  with 
which  he  awaited  her  reply. 

"That  is  not  a  subject  on  which  I  can  advise,"  she 
said  gravely. 

"Why?" 

"Because  I  do  not  know  all  there  is  to  know,"  she 
replied  simply. 

He  was  conscious  that  she  had  thawed  somewhat, 


272        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

that  her  manner  was  less  unsympathetic.  For  nearly  a 
minute  there  was  silence,  broken  at  length  by  Smith. 

"I  want  to  ask  you  a  question,"  he  said. 

"Yes  ?"    She  turned  to  him  with  slightly  lifted  brows. 

"Do  you  really  think  that  I  am  Alfred  Warren, 
knowing  what  you  do  about  him,  and  having  seen  what 
you  have  of  me?"  He  gazed  steadily  into  her  eyes. 

"Every  one  recognises  you  as  Mr.  Warren,"  she  re- 
plied, after  a  short  pause.  There  was  a  note  of  hesi- 
tation in  her  voice. 

"Yes;  but  you?"  he  persisted. 

"I — I — "  She  stopped  short.  "It  is  impossible  for 
me  to  say,"  and  her  eyes  dropped  before  his  intense 
gaze. 

"Does  that  mean  that  in  your  heart  you  don't?" 
he  asked,  in  his  eagerness  leaning  slightly  towards  her. 

"Pleeeeeeeeease !" 

There  was  genuine  distress,  both  in  her  tone  and 
her  look,  as  she  lifted  her  eyes  once  more  to  his,  her 
red,  moist  lips  slightly  parted. 

"I  thought  women  always  knew  such  things  by  in- 
tuition," he  said,  half  to  himself. 

She  continued  to  regard  him,  a  puzzled  look  in  her 
eyes.  It  was  as  if  she  were  seeking  to  draw  something 
from  him  without  the  aid  of  speech.  She  was  conscious 
that  her  reason  had  never  been  less  in  control  of  the 
situation. 

"If  you  are  not  Mr.  Warren,"  she  said  at  length, 
speaking  slowly  and  deliberately,  "why  do  you  not 
say  who  you  are?" 

"Because — "  he  paused,  "because  there  are  reasons 
why  I  prefer  to  be  known  as  James  Smith,"  he  said 
quietly,  conscious  that,  in  spite  of  his  endeavour  to 


ERIC  PLAYS  A  PART  273 

keep  his  tone  friendly,  there  was  an  implied  snub  in 
his  words. 

She  rose  and  called  to  Nero. 

"I  must  go  now,"  she  said.  A  few  moments  later 
she  was  in  the  saddle,  Nero  impatiently  pawing  the 
ground. 

She  hesitated  before  giving  the  signal  that  would 
take  them  careering  over  the  countryside.  Smith 
looked  up  at  her  curiously.  It  seemed  as  if  she  wished 
to  say  something,  which  she  found  some  difficulty  in 
putting  into  words. 

"I  think  I  ought  to  tell  you,"  she  said  at  length, 
"Robert  Thirkettle  is  coming  back." 

In  spite  of  himself  Smith  started.  The  remark  was 
so  entirely  unexpected.  She  was  gazing  down  at  him, 
the  same  look  in  her  eyes  that  he  had  noticed  before, 
as  if  she  would  penetrate  behind  the  veil  of  his  words. 

"When?"  he  asked  at  length,  conscious  that  the 
question  might  easily  be  translated  into  anxiety. 

"This  week." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"The  groom,  Nudd,  told  me  in  confidence,"  she 
added,  flushing  slightly.  "His  father  told  him.  No 
one  else  knows." 

"And  why  do  you  tell  me?"  Smith  enquired,  con- 
scious that  there  was  a  note  of  sternness  in  his  voice. 

"I — I  thought  you  might  want  to,  to — "  Her  eyes 
dropped  beneath  the  anger  that  blazed  in  his.  A 
moment  later  Nero  was  outraged  by  feeling  the  touch 
of  the  light  riding-switch  she  always  carried.  He 
plunged  forward,  angry  that  his  Sugar  Man  should 
have  seen  him  subjected  to  so  great  an  indignity. 

As  they  disappeared  from  sight,  Smith  returned  to 


274        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

the  fallen  tree,  where  he  proceeded  to  fill  his  pipe,  a 
stern,  uncompromising  look  in  his  usually  smiling  blue 
eyes. 

"Damn  Alfred  Warren !"  he  muttered. 

"Is  it  all  right?"  A  red  head  was  poked  out  from 
behind  a  hedge  a  few  yards  away. 

"If  I  catch  you,"  cried  Smith  angrily,  looking  about 
him  for  the  head  that  had  disappeared  at  the  first  sign 
of  danger,  "I'll — I'll  toss  you  into  the  pond,"  and 
he  made  a  dive  for  a  clump  of  bushes  next  to  the  one 
from  which  Eric  was  in  rapid,  but  orderly  retreat. 

"Marjie's  given  him  a  chill  on  the  liv,"  he  muttered 
philosophically  a  minute  later,  as  he  took  a  pot-shot 
at  a  robin  on  a  hawthorn-tree.  "What  price  my  bowl- 
ing-pracnow?" 


CHAPTER  XIX 

SIR  JOHN  HILDRETH  INSERTS  AN  ADVERTISEMENT 


"TS  this  your  doing,  John?"  Mrs.  Compton-Stacey- 
held  out  to  her  brother  a  copy  of  The  Times 
folded  so  as  to  give  prominence  to  the  agony 

column,  at  the  same  time  pointing  to  an  advertisement 

which  read: — 

JAMES  SMITH.  Wanted  news  of  one  calling  him- 
self James  Smith  (known  to  be  an  alias),  last  seen 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  Winchester  on  June  23rd, 
with  suit-case,  kit-bag  and  rain-coat.  Age  28,  height 
5  ft.  10  in.,  fair,  blue  eyes,  attractive  personality. 
A  reward  of  £25  will  be  paid  for  news  that  will 
lead  to  the  discovery  of  the  present  whereabouts 
of  the  said  James  Smith.  Apply  to  Truelove  and 
Murchison,  Solicitors,  384,  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields, 
London,  W.C. 

"Well,  what's  the  matter  with  it?"  demanded  Sir 
John  Hildreth,  with  the  truculence  of  one  who  already 
stands  self-condemned. 

"Is  Mr.  Murchison  responsible  for  the  literary 
part?"  enquired  Mrs.  Compton-Stacey,  as  she  replaced 
the  paper  on  the  table. 

"No,  he's  not,"  was  the  curt  reply.  "I'm  not  a 
fool  that  I  have  to  go  to  my  solicitor  to  draw  ur> 

an  advertisement." 

275 


276        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

"You  composed  it  yourself  then?"  she  queried. 

"Of  course  I  did,"  he  retorted.  "I  got  it  out  of 
a  book,  at  least  I  got  the  idea,"  he  added. 

"A  novel?"  she  queried,  with  that  quiet  insistence 
which  always  gave  her  brother  the  feeling  that  he 
was  once  more  a  schoolboy,  sent  up  before  "the  Head." 

"It  was  a  story  I  was  reading."  Sir  John  was  an 
inveterate  reader  of  novels  of  the  more  sensational 
order.  "Of  course  I  altered  it." 

Mrs.  Compton-Stacey  rose  and  walked  over  to  her 
brother's  favourite  chair,  on  which  was  lying  a  book. 
Picking  it  up,  she  read  aloud  the  title,  "The  Blood- 
stained Boot."  Opening  it  at  a  place  where  a  leaf 
was  turned  down,  she  glanced  first  at  the  page  before 
her,  then  at  her  brother,  who  stood  with  guilt  stamped 
all  over  him.  Finally  she  returned  to  the  page. 

"The  adaptation  is  admirable,"  she  said  a  few 
minutes  later,  as  she  returned  to  her  chair,  carrying 
the  book  with. her;  "but  the  advertisement  in  the  book 
concerns  a  man  suspected  of  murder,"  she  added  as 
she  resumed  her  seat.  "Unfortunately  you  have  re- 
tained the  same  atmosphere  in  your  own  wording." 

"There's  nothing  about  murder,"  he  cried,  unable 
to  keep  out  of  his  voice  the  apprehension  he  felt.  "It 
simply  offers  a  reward  for  news  of — of  Darrell." 

"Well,  we  shall  see,"  she  said,  with  the  air  of  one 
who  herself  has  no  doubt  whatever  about  the  matter. 
"An  advertisement  like  that  may  make  things  ex- 
tremely awkward  for  the  boy." 

"How?"  he  demanded,  now  thoroughly  discon- 
certed. 

"At  Scotland  Yard,  I  believe,  they  are  inveterate 
readers  of  newspapers.  The  implication  of  the  words 


SIR  JOHN  HILDRETH  277 

'calling  himself,'  and  'alias,'  is  clearly  that  of  fraud." 

"But  I  didn't  say  so,"  he  cried,  seizing  The  Times, 
reading  the  advertisement  again,  and  finally  tossing 
the  paper  back  upon  the  table,  after  which  he  stood 
staring  blankly  at  his  sister. 

"You  had  better  marry  Vera  Truscombe,  John," 
she  said,  nodding  her  head  slightly,  which  with  her 
always  indicated  disapproval.  "Better  a  crinkled  nose 
in  a  wife  than  a  crinkled  brain  in  a  bachelor." 

"I  won't  be  bullied  like  this,  Charlotte,"  he  blazed. 
"You  disapprove  of  everything  I  do.  You — " 

"And  who  is  generally  right?''  she  enquired  calmly. 
"You  or  I?" 

"Confound  it!  I  refuse  to  discuss  the  matter  with 
you,"  he  cried  angrily,  putting  up  a  barrage  of  wrath 
to  hide  his  discomfiture.  "Why  didn't  you  say  all 
this  before  I  sent  off  those  infernal  advertisements.  I 
put  it  in  The  Morning  Post  and  The  Daily  Telegraph, 
too.  You  always  blame  me  after — after  it's  done." 

"For  one  thing  I  was  not  aware  that  you  intended 
to  advertise,"  she  said,  rising.  Her  calmness  on  such 
occasions  infuriated  him,  "And  for  another — " 

"It  was  you  who  told  me  to  do  it,"  he  interrupted. 

"And  for  another,"  she  continued  imperturbably, 
"you  seldom  if  ever  take  advice,  John.  You  prefer 
to  allow  me  to  help  pick  up  the  pieces  afterwards." 

"But  didn't  you  advise  me  to  advertise  for  him?" 
he  demanded,  planting  himself  directly  in  her  path  to 
the  door. 

"To  the  best  of  my  recollection,"  she  said  as  she 
made  a  detour  round  him,  "you  remarked  that  you 
would  be  damned  if  you  did,"  and  as  she  passed  she 
gave  him  a  little  smile  which  told  him  that  they  were 


378        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

still  friends.  Without  that  smile,  he  would  have  been 
wretched  for  the  rest  of  the  day,  although  he  did  not 
know  it. 

"Damn  that  fellow  Peters!"  he  grumbled,  as  he 
closed  the  door.  "What  the  devil  did  he  want  to 
grow  that — that  infernal  moustache  for.  If  he'd  been 
here — "  He  did  not  finish  the  sentence ;  but  threw  him- 
self into  his  chair,  and  glared  at  a  bust  of  Disraeli. 
Then  suddenly  he  recollected  that  he  had  not  told  his 
sister  of  his  master-stroke  in  writing  to  Peters.  The 
thought  of  it  soothed  his  wounded  feelings  and,  rising, 
he  mixed  himself  a  whisky-and-soda. 

n 

"Jane!" 

In  her  excitement,  Miss  Mary  started  forward  and, 
with  the  edge  of  The  Morning  Post,  upset  her  coffee- 
cup. 

Miss  Jell  slightly  lowered  The  Times;  she  always 
read  The  Times  at  breakfast,  and  gazed  disapprov- 
ingly across  at  her  sister. 

"Ring  the  bell,  Mary,"  she  said,  "and  tell  the  maid 
to  bring  a  cloth." 

Miss  Jell  prided  herself  upon  her  restraint,  even 
in  moments  of  crisis.  It  annoyed  her  intensely  for 
any  one  to  soil  a  tablecloth;  but  the  act  once  com- 
mitted, she  accepted  it  with  stoical  calm,  which  she 
considered  was  due  to  her  self-respect  as  a  gentle- 
woman. 

"But  look,  Jane!"  cried  Miss  Mary,  and  she  held 
out  the  copy  of  The  Morning  Post,  indicating  the  agony 
column  with  a  well-manicured  fore-finger.  "It's  him !" 
she  cried  ungrammatically,  then,  her  eyes  falling  on  the 


SIR  JOHN  HILDRETH 

dark  stain  which  was  slowly  spreading,  she  dashed 
over  to  the  bell-push  and  pressed  it. 

"Miss  Mary  has  had  an  accident,"  said  Miss  Jell 
with  cold  composure,  as  the  maid  entered. 

Miss  Jell  always  referred  to  her  as  "the  maid,"  for 
one  thing  it  was  more  refined,  and  for  another,  she 
did  not  approve  of  the  nomenclature  of  the  lower 
orders. 

"Dap  it  gently,  and  then  put  a  dinner-mat  under- 
neath," she  ordered. 

Having  provided  for  the  crisis  which  her  sister's 
impetuosity  had  precipitated,  Miss  Jell  turned  to  the 
newspaper  that  had  been  thrust  into  her  hands. 

"It's  in  the  agony  column,"  cried  Miss  Mary,  hardly 
able  to  control  her  voice.  "The  third  down.  Isn't 
it  dreadful?" 

Miss  Jell  lowered  her  eyes  and  read: — 

JAMES  SMITH.  Wanted  news  of  one  calling 
himself  James  Smith  (known  to  be  an  alias)  last  seen 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  Winchester  on  June  23rd, 
with  suit-case,  kit-bag,  and  rain-coat.  Age  28,  height 
5  ft.  10  in.,  fair,  with  blue  eyes,  attractive  person- 
ality. A  reward  of  £25  will  be  paid  for  news  that 
will  lead  to  the  discovery  of  the  present  whereabouts 
of  the  said  James  Smith.  Apply  to  Truelove  and 
Murchison,  Solicitors,  384,  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields, 
London,  W.C. 

Having  read  the  advertisement  twice,  Miss  Jell  re- 
turned the  paper  to  her  sister.  Composure  was  another 
quality  upon  which  she  prided  herself. 

"What  do  you  think,  Jane?"   asked  Miss  Mary, 


280        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

quivering  with  excitement,  which  she  controlled  with 
difficulty,  knowing  her  sister's  prejudice  against  any 
expression  of  emotion. 

"I  think  it  most  deplorable,  Mary.  The  man  is  obvi- 
ously a  bad  character,  whether  he  is  Alfred  Warren 
or  not." 

"But — but,"  Miss  Mary  paused,  and  looked  anx- 
iously at  her  sister. 

"Well?" 

Miss  Jell  lifted  her  chin  slightly.  Miss  Mary  recog- 
nised it  as  a  danger-signal. 

"Nothing,  Jane,"  she  stuttered. 

"Say  what  you  were  going  to  say,  Mary,"  ordered 
Miss  Jell. 

"I,  I  was  only  going  to  mention  that  there — that 
there — is  a  reward."  The  last  three  words  came  out 
with  a  rush,  and  Miss  Mary  held  her  breath. 

"There  is  a  reward  for  those  who  choose  to  claim 
it,"  was  the  icy  rejoinder,  and  the  vision  of  the  new 
dining-room  carpet  that  had  floated  before  Miss 
Mary's  eyes,  vanished.  She  sighed,  realising  that 
somebody  else  in  Little  Bilstead  would  inevitably  ac- 
quire what  she  had  already  come  to  look  upon  as  the 
property  of  The  Cedars. 

During  the  rest  of  the  meal  each  was  unusually 
preoccupied,  Miss  Mary  in  condoling  with  herself  over 
the  loss  of  a  dining-room  carpet,  Miss  Jell  in  wrestling 
with  her  breeding. 

Just  at  the  moment  when  she  arrived  at  the  con- 
clusion that  it  was  the  duty  of  every  British  subject 
to  assist  in  bringing  a  criminal  to  justice,  Miss  Marshall 
was  engaged  in  slapping  her  father  vigorously  between 
his  shoulder-blades. 


SIR  JOHN  HILDRETH  281 

It  was  Mr.  Marshall's  practice  at  breakfast  to  prop 
The  Daily  Telegraph  up  in  front  of  him;  he  generally 
used  the  coffee-pot  for  the  purpose.  During  the  whole 
of  the  meal,  his  eyes  were  seldom  removed  from  its 
columns.  Food  he  conveyed  to  his  mouth  mechani- 
cally, and  he  would  drink,  absorbing  the  news  of  the 
world  over  the  rim  of  his  cup. 

It  was  this  custom  that  had  brought  about  disaster. 
The  self-same  advertisement  that  had  caused  Miss 
Mary  Jell  to  upset  her  coffee-cup,  had  met  the  eye 
of  Mr.  Marshall  just  as  he  was  swallowing,  with  the 
result  that  a  portion  of  the  weak  tea  with  which  he 
washed  down  his  frugal  breakfast,  had,  as  he  explained 
later  to  his  daughter,  "gone  the  wrong  way." 

When  Mr.  Marshall  had  acquired  a  working  supply 
of  oxygen,  he  pointed  to  the  paragraph  which  had 
caused  all  the  trouble.  His  throat  was  too  sore  for 
speech. 

"Father!"  cried  Miss  Marshall,  having  read  the 
advertisement,  which  she  promptly  translated  into  a 
pair  of  trousers,  a  blouse,  and  a  new  dinner-service, 
respectively  for  her  father,  herself,  and  the  house, 
with  a  handsome  balance  to  be  allocated  later. 

"A  pen  and  ink,"  gasped  Mr.  Marshall. 

The  word  "ink"  came  out  like  an  order  from  a 
drill-sergeant,  as  Mr.  Marshall  trailed  off  into  another 
paroxysm  of  coughing,  and  Miss  Marshall  went  to  do 
her  parent's  bidding. 

Four  other  breakfast-tables  in  Little  Bilstead  were 
that  morning  rendered  intensely  dramatic  by  the  an- 
nouncement that  news  of  James  Smith  was  so  eagerly 
desired  as  to  be  worth  the  sum  of  £25  to  the  advertiser. 

By  ten  o'clock  quite  a  number  of  interested  people 


282        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

were  aware  that  James  Smith  was  "wanted"  and,  not 
being  over-burdened  with  charity,  they  assumed  the 
worst. 

Tom  Bassingthwaighte  heard  it  from  Mrs.  Crane's 
maid,  who  had  noticed  that  Dr.  Crane's  attention  was 
divided  between  the  agony-column  of  The  Times,  and 
removing  the  bones  of  a  bloater  from  his  mouth  with 
his  fingers.  She  had  overheard  a  remark  he  had  made 
to  Mrs.  Crane,  in  which  the  word  "reward"  had  been 
mentioned. 

Having  a  good  sight,  she  had  managed  to  read  the 
advertisement  over  the  doctor's  shoulder  and,  having 
no  arriere-pensee,  she  had  confided  the  news  to  Tom 
Bassingthwaighte  when  he  brought  the  letters. 

That  morning,  very  few  people  got  their  due,  as  the 
post-office  understood  it,  although  many  received  letters 
to  which  they  were  not  entitled.  Tom  Bassing- 
thwaighte was  doing  some  deep  thinking  instead  of 
devoting  his  entire  attention  to  His  Majesty's  mails. 

It  was  not  until  he  reached  the  vicarage,  which  lay 
towards  the  end  of  his  round,  that  he  saw  his  way  clear. 

Inspiration  came  in  the  shape  of  little  Bobby  Greeve, 
who  was  hastening  towards  him  with  the  vicar's  morn- 
ing paper. 

"You  be  late,  Bobby,"  remarked  Tom  Bassing- 
thwaighte pleasantly. 

"Slep'  over  myself,"  panted  the  breathless  Bobby. 

"I'll  take  it  up,"  said  the  postman  good-naturedly, 
relieving  the  lad  of  the  vicarage  copy  of  The  Times. 

With  a  suppressed  explosion  which  really  meant 
thanks,  Bobby  darted  off. 

It  was  when  he  was  half-way  up  the  drive  that  Tom 
Bassingthwaighte  had  his  inspiration.  He  had  already 


SIR  JOHN  HILDRETH  283 

realised  the  danger  of  this  fugitive  from  justice,  as  in 
his  own  mind  he  already  classified  Smith,  making  a 
bolt  of  it.  If  the  vicarage  received  no  paper  that 
morning,  this  danger  would  be  removed,  or  at  least 
considerably  lessened,  as  it  was  very  unlikely  that  any 
one  would  warn  Smith  that  a  price  was  upon  his  head. 
They  would  prefer  to  make  an  effort  to  obtain  the 
reward — Tom  Bassingthwaighte  had  lived  too  long  in 
Little  Bilstead  to  be  in  any  doubt  as  to  the  characters 
of  its  inhabitants. 

Feeling  like  a  detective  in  one  of  the  paper-covered 
stories  upon  which  he  fed  ravenously,  the  postman 
thrust  the  copy  of  The  Times  into  his  bag. 

From  then  on  everybody  got  their  proper  ration  of 
correspondence. 

The  postman  knew  that  in  Little  Bilstead  they  were 
inveterate  readers  of  newspapers.  He  foresaw  a  num- 
ber of  applications  for  the  reward,  and  it  perturbed 
him — that  fact  had  been  responsible  for  the  mistakes 
in  distribution. 

By  three  o'clock  that  afternoon  his  worst  forebod- 
ings were  realised,  as  there  were  no  less  than  nine  let- 
ters addressed  to  Messrs.  Truelove  and  Murchison, 
his  own  being  the  tenth. 

With  great  deliberation,  he  placed  these  nine  letters 
under  the  counter,  letting  the  tenth  go  forward.  There 
were  times,  he  reasoned,  when  postal  delays  were  un- 
avoidable. 

That  night  at  The  Pigeons  it  was  noticed  that  Tom 
Bassingthwaighte  was  in  a  state  of  high  good-humour. 
He  drank  two  ciders,  three  old  ales  and  sang  one  song, 
eventually  returning  home  at  an  hour  that  augured  ill 
for  the  punctual  delivery  of  the  morrow's  letters. 


284        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

When  Smith  walked  through  the  village  that  morn- 
ing, he  was  conscious  that  he  was  arousing  more  than 
usual  interest.  The  sporting  element  was  still  as  cor- 
dial in  its  greetings;  whilst  the  unsporting  scowled  at 
him  as  darkly  as  ever;  still  he  was  conscious  of  an  at- 
mosphere of  suppressed  excitement,  and  he  was  puz- 
zled. 

It  was  possible,  of  course,  that  some  hitherto  un- 
suspected misdemeanour  of  Alfred  Warren  had  been 
unearthed,  in  which  case  the  explosion  would  probably 
take  place  later. 

He  noticed,  among  other  things,  that  Postle  was  in 
full  uniform,  with  carefully  blackened  boots.  It  was 
a  tradition  in  Little  Bilstead  that  for  John  Postle  to 
blacken  his  boots  boded  ill  for  somebody.  It  was  his 
method  of  emphasising  the  fact  that  dramatic  events 
were  pending. 

For  some  days  past  Smith  had  been  debating  upon 
the  advisability  of  continuing  his  journey.  The  rail- 
way strike  had  ended  in  a  compromise,  as  such  things 
invariably  do — after  all  the  damage  has  been  done. 

There  were  many  reasons  why  he  would  have  liked 
to  stay  in  Little  Bilstead,  not  the  least  of  which  was 
the  fact  that  it  provided  both  comedy  and  drama, 
with  a  special  tendency  towards  the  unexpected. 

As  he  approached  The  Pigeons,  he  observed  John 
Nudd,  who  was  standing  at  the  door,  suddenly  turn 
and  bolt  into  the  inn,  as  if  undesirous  of  being  recog- 
nised. As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  had  just  remembered 
leaving  the  newspaper  on  the  counter  and,  as  he  had 
already  written  and  posted  an  application  for  the  £25 
reward,  he  was  not  taking  any  chances. 

Reappearing    as    Smith    came    past   the    door,    he 


SIR  JOHN  HILDRETH  285 

nodded,  and  proceeded  to  watch  him  until  he  was  out 
of  sight  up  the  road. 

Smith  finally  decided  that  the  .secret  of  Thirkettle's 
return  had  leaked  out  and  was  responsible  for  the 
electricity  in  the  atmosphere. 

That  day  Smith  was  late  for  luncheon.  He  had 
walked  on  forgetful  of  the  time,  as  he  pondered  Mar- 
jorie's  words.  Had  he  been  cruel  in  staying  on? 

He  had  suggested  the  possibility  to  Miss  Lipscombe 
the  night  before  at  dinner,  and  she  had  replied,  "Rub- 
bish!" proceeding  to  point  out  that  even  if  he  had 
gone  at  once  the  damage  was  already  done. 

"Marjorie's  too  young  to  understand,"  had  been  her 
final  comment. 

He  had  wondered. 


CHAPTER  XX 

LITTLE    BILSTEAD   ACHES   WITH   DRAMA 


"It  yTR.   WILLIS  would  like   to   see  you,   sir." 

\\r  \  "Willis!"  repeated  Smith,  looking  from 
Janet  across  the  luncheon-table  to  Miss  Lip- 
scombe. 

At  the  slight  inclination  of  her  head,  he  rose.  In 
the  hall  he  found  Willis,  his  face  deathly  white,  the 
corners  of  his  mouth  twitching,  and  his  hands  working 
as  if  he  were  unable  to  control  them. 

"Is  anything  the  matter,  Willis?"  he  enquired,  has- 
tening across  to  the  butler. 

"Bob  Thirkettle's  back,  Mr.  Alfred,"  he  stuttered, 
and  the  trembling  of  his  hands  and  the  twitching  of  his 
mouth  seemed  to  increase.  "I've  run  all  the  way  from 
The  Grange  to  warn  you,  sir." 

"That  was  very  foolish,"  said  Smith  gravely.  "Why 
should  you  want  to  warn  me?" 

"You  mustn't  go  out,  sir,"  he  quavered  huskily. 
"He'll  kill  you,  sir."  He  swayed  slightly,  and  ap- 
peared to  be  on  the  point  of  collapse. 

"Sit  down,  Willis,"  said  Smith  gently,  forcing  him 
into  a  chair.  "You  look  thoroughly  ill." 

"I'm — I'm  all  right,  Mr.  Alfred,  thank  you,"  he  stut- 
tered, giving  the  lie  to  his  words  by  the  greyness  of 
his  features,  and  the  beads  of  perspiration  on  his  brow. 

"Ask  Miss  Lipscombe  if  she  will  come  here,"  said 

286 


LITTLE  BILSTEAD  ACHES  WITH  DRAMA        287 

Smith,  turning  to  Janet,  who  stood  an  open-mouthed 
spectator,  "and  bring  some  brandy." 

A  minute  later,  Miss  Lipscombe  had  taken  the  mat- 
ter in  hand,  and  was  holding  a  glass  of  brandy-and- 
water  to  Willis'  grey  lips.  Slowly  he  drank,  with  the 
obedience  of  a  child.  Presently  he  sighed  and  the 
colour  returned  to  his  cheeks.  He  strove  to  rise;  but 
Miss  Lipscombe  restrained  him. 

"Now,  sit  still,  Willis,"  she  said  gently,  "and  do 
as  you  are  told.  I  will  send  Janet  for  Dr.  Crane." 

"No,  miss;  please  don't,  miss,"  he  expostulated. 
"It's  only  a  passing  faintness,  I've  been  hurrying,"  he 
gasped,  his  gaze  all  the  time  fixed  fearfully  upon  Smith. 

"Dear  me,  dear  me !"  murmured  the  vicar,  appear- 
ing at  the  dining-room  door,  his  vague  eyes  resting 
upon  Willis,  sitting  limply  in  the  chair.  "It  must  be 
the  hot  weather." 

"Rubbish!"  was  Miss  Lipscombe's  comment. 
"When  a  man  of  Willis'  age  will  run  about  the  country- 
side as  he  says  he  has  been  doing,  what  do  you  ex- 
pect?" 

The  vicar  continued  to  gaze  at  the  inert  form  of 
the  butler,  mild  reproach  in  his  eye. 

"Very  wrong,"  he  murmured.  "Very  dangerous, 
too.  I  was  once  excellent  at  the  sprint  myself;  but 
not  now,"  he  murmured  sadly,  "not  now." 

"If  you  go  trotting  about  like  a  two-year-old, 
Willis,"  said  Smith,  "we  shall  have  you  taking  to  your 
bed,  and  then  what  will  everybody  do  at  The  Grange?" 

"It  was  Mrs.  Higgs  sent  me,"  murmured  Willis. 
"She's  having  hysterics,"  he  added,  with  the  air  of 
one  who  announces  that  another  is  taking  a  bath. 
"Mrs.  Death  had  a  vision  last  night,"  he  added  gravely, 


288        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

"so  we  were — "  He  stopped  suddenly,  his  eyes  fixed 
appealingly  upon  Smith. 

The  corners  of  Miss  Lipscombe's  mouth  twitched,  as 
she  made  a  motion  to  her  brother  to  return  to  the 
dining-room. 

For  a  moment  the  vicar  stood  regarding  her  un- 
certainly, then,  having  looked  behind  him,  and  on  either 
side  to  see  if  there  were  any  one  to  whom  she  was 
signalling,  he  realised  her  sign  was  for  him,  and  turned 
obediently  into  the  dining-room,  followed  by  his  sister 
and  Janet. 

"Mr.  Alfred,"  whispered  Willis,  having  assured  him- 
self by  a  hasty  glance  that  the  dining-room  door  was 
closed.  "Don't  go  into  the  village  to-day,  sir.  If  you 
do,  Bob  Thirkettle  will,  will— Oh!  it's  terrible,"  he 
broke  off,  moaning. 

"Don't  you  worry  your  foolish  old  head  about  me, 
Willis,"  said  Smith,  with  a  reassuring  smile,  "and  tell 
Mrs.  Higgs  I'll  bring  her  the  redoubtable  Thirkettle's 
head  on  a  salver." 

"You  won't  go,  Mr.  Alfred,  will  you?"  he  begged. 
"He — he  threatened  to  kill  you,  sir." 

"So  I  understand." 

"And  he's  so  strong,  sir." 

"Is  he?  By  the  way,  Willis,  has  it  ever  struck  you 
that  two  can  play  at  the  killing  game?" 

"But,  Mr.  Alfred,  you  wouldn't  have  a  chance  with* 
him,"  he  quavered.  "He — he  may  have  his  gun." 

"So  you  expect  me  to  stay  in  the  grounds  and  never 
go  out,  Willis,"  Smith  queried,  smiling  down  at  him. 
"Is  that  it?" 

"Yes,  sir,  it  would  be  safer,"  counselled  Willis. 


LITTLE  BILSTEAD  ACHES  WITH  DRAMA        289 

"It  would  certainly  be  safer,"  he  agreed,  "but  would 
it  be  altogether  dignified,  do  you  think?" 

Willis'  eyes  dropped  beneath  Smith's  gaze.  There 
was  about  him  nothing  of  the  paladin. 

"You  won't  go  out,  Mr.  Alfred,  will  you?"  he  im- 
plored, rising  shakily  from  his  chair.  "I  must  get  back 
to  Mrs.  Higgs,  sir.  Miss  Marjorie's  out  and  Mrs. 
Death  may  have  another  vision,  sir,  and  there's  no 
one  to  look  after  things."  He  tottered  towards  the 
hall-door. 

"I'll  come  part  of  the  way  with  you,"  said  Smith, 
taking  the  old  man  gently  by  the  arm.  A  vision- 
seeing  cook  was  a  bit  of  a  responsibility,  he  decided. 

At  the  vicarage  gate,  Willis  insisted  that  he  was 
quite  well  again,  and  as  he  seemed  able  to  get  on 
alone,  Smith  retraced  his  steps  to  the  vicarage. 

He  was  not  feeling  so  easy  in  his  own  mind  as  his 
words  implied.  It  was  a  beastly  awkward  situation, 
he  decided.  If  he  did  not  appear  in  the  village,  or 
go  about  the  neighbourhood  as  usual,  people  would 
inevitably  say  that  he  was  afraid.  If,  on  the  other 
hand,  he  did  appear,  there  would  undoubtedly  be  a 
row,  Thirkettle  might  even  attempt  to  shoot  him. 
Quite  apart  from  that,  however,  the  fellow  appeared 
to  have  a  big  reputation  as  a  fighter. 

The  worst  of  it  was  Smith  found  his  sympathies 
entirely  with  his  self-constituted  enemy.  The  man  was 
acting  only  as  a  man  should  act  under  such  provoca- 
tion as  he  had  received.  The  unfortunate  thing  was 
that  the  real  Alfred  was  not  there  to  receive  the  chas- 
tisement he  so  richly  deserved. 

It  was  obvious  that  he  must  go  down  to  the  village 


290        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

and  show  himself,  otherwise  he  would  be  branded  as  a 
craven,  and  he  felt  he  should  be  making  a  poor  return 
for  the  hospitality  he  had  received  at  The  Grange, 
if  he  allowed  such  a  stigma  to  rest  upon  Lady  Warren's 
reputed  son. 

As  he  re-entered  the  dining-room,  he  heard  the  vicar 
say:  "They  must  shake  hands,  Hannah." 

"Shake  fiddlesticks!  You — "  She  stopped  suddenly 
at  the  sight  of  Smith. 

"You  know?"  he  queried,  as  he  resumed  his  seat  at 
the  table. 

She  nodded.     "Janet  told  us,"  she  said. 

In  her  eyes  there  was  a  strange  expression  that  puz- 
zled him.  It  suggested  both  anxiety  and  expectation. 
He  was  conscious  that  she  was  watching  him  keenly. 

As  for  Janet,  each  time  she  had  occasion  to  enter 
the  room,  she  fixed  on  Smith  a  pair  of  round,  terrified 
eyes,  and  her  gaze  did  not  leave  his  face  until  inter- 
rupted by  the  closing  of  the  door  behind  her. 

"I  think,"  said  Miss  Lipscombe,  after  an  almost 
embarrassing  silence,  "that  it  would  be  better  to  let 
the  vicar  see  Postle  before  you  go  into  the  village." 

"I  am  going  into  the  village  this  afternoon,  Miss 
Lipscombe,"  he  said  quietly,  replacing  his  coffee-cup 
in  the  saucer. 

He  could  have  sworn  that  the  look  which  sprang 
into  Miss  Lipscombe's  eyes  was  one  of  relief.  For 
nearly  a  minute  she  continued  to  regard  him  steadily. 

"This  Thirkettle  is  a  big  man,  Mr.  Smith,"  she  said 
at  length,  "and  he  has  reason — "  She  hesitated. 

"So  I  understand,"  was  his  calm  retort.  "I  have 
made  some  excellent  friends  owing  to  my  likeness  to 


LITTLE  BILSTEAD  ACHES  WITH  DRAMA        291 

Alfred  Warren,  and  I  must  not  refuse  to  encounter  one 
of  his  enemies.  It  wouldn't  be  quite  cricket,"  he 
smiled.  "Would  it  now?" 

"And  you  really  mean  to  go?" 

"Even  with  you  and  the  vicar  hanging  on  to  my 
coat-tails,"  he  smiled. 

This  time  there  was  no  doubt  about  the  look  in  Miss 
Lipscombe's  eyes — it  was  relief.  She  had  dreaded  find- 
ing the  feet  of  clay  she  expected  to  be  there. 

"It  is  very  difficult  to  know  what  to  do,"  she  mur- 
mured, looking  across  at  the  vicar,  who  was  dreamily 
gazing  out  of  the  window.  "Very  difficult,"  she  re- 
peated, shaking  her  head  slightly  as  she  rose  from  the 
table. 

"I  think  I'll  finish  training  that  rather  self-willed 
Dorothy  Perkins,"  said  Smith  as  he,  too,  rose.  "An- 
other hour  ought  to  bring  her  to  reason,"  he  added. 
He  had  no  intention  of  placing  himself  at  a  disadvan- 
tage by  joining  issue  with  the  local  Dempsey  immedi- 
ately after  a  meal.  A  little  relaxation  with  Dorothy 
Perkins  would  make  all  the  difference  in  his  speed,  and 
from  what  he  -had  heard,  it  was  in  speed  alone  that 
his  chance  lay,  provided,  of  course,  it  came  to  blows. 

Dorothy  Perkins  took  rather  longer  than  the  hour 
he  had  allotted  to  her;  moreover  she  was  spiteful  and 
pricked  his  fingers.  It  was  not  until  three  o'clock 
that  he  went  to  his  room  to  change  into  an  easy  jacket, 
and  a  pair  of  rubber-soled  tennis  shoes.  There  was 
nothing  like  being  prepared. 

Slipping  out  oj  the  back  way,  he  made  a  detour 
round  the  house,  and  struck  the  drive  half-way  towards 
the  gate. 


292        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

As  he  did  so,  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  Marjorie  dis- 
appearing round  the  bend  in  the  direction  of  the 
vicarage. 

Had  she  too  come  to  warn  him  against  the  danger 
that  threatened? 

His  jaw  set  in  a  grim  line.  To  inherit  another  man's 
sins  was  bad  enough;  but  to  be  credited  with  his 
cowardice  was  intolerable. 

As  he  strode  along  the  road  towards  the  village,  he 
almost  hoped  that  Bob  Thirkettle  would  show  fight. 
It  was  his  intention  to  take  a  stroll  through  the  village 
for  half-a-mile,  and  return  the  same  way.  This  would 
give  his  man  time  to  appear. 

Of  course  Thirkettle  might  preferathe  infinitely  surer 
way  of  potting  him  from  behind  a  friendly  hedge;  but 
he  must  take  his  chance  of  that.  Still,  it  was  not  a 
pleasant  sensation  walking  along  a  highway  with  the 
knowledge  that,  somewhere  in  the  near  vicinity,  was  a 
man  thirsting  for  your  blood,  a  man,  who,  at  any 
moment,  might  be  gazing  along  the  barrel  of  a  gun 
preparatory  to  letting  fly. 

As  he  walked,  his  thoughts  drifted  back  to  his  Ox- 
ford days  when  Old  Plum,  an  ex-prize  fighter,  would 
"mix  it"  with  any  one  who  made  it  worth  his  while. 

"Give  and  take,  gentlemen,  if  you  please,"  had  been 
the  burden  of  his  exhortation,  "and  don't  be  afraid  o' 
the  ginger." 

As  Old  Plum  himself  gave  considerably  more  ginger 
than  he  took,  his  clientele  was  recruited  exclusively 
from  the  hardiest  and  the  heaviest  of  the  year's  boxing 
men. 

Suddenly  Smith  was  startled  by  a  small  boy  darting 
out  from  the  hedge  some  fifty  yards  or  so  ahead,  and 
scuttling  off  for  all  he  was  worth  along  the  road. 


LITTLE  BILSTEAD  ACHES  WITH  DRAMA        293 

"A  jackal!"  he  murmured.     "Thank  the  Lord  for 
Old  Plum!" 


II 

The  news  of  Bob  Thirkettle's  return  had  spread 
through  Little  Bilstead  with  almost  incredible  rapidity. 

It  had  found  Mr.  Marshall  going  over  the  leg-bone 
of  a  rabbit  with  his  back-teeth,  Miss  Marshall  watch- 
ing him  anxiously,  lest  it  should  slip  from  his  grasp. 
She  was  always  anxious  when  her  father  got  to  the 
bones,  especially  fish-bones. 

Mr.  Marshall  hurried  over  the  boiled  suet-pudding 
in  a  way  that  convinced  his  daughter  he  would  have 
indigestion.  This  would  mean  a  sleepless  night  for 
her,  for  with  Mr.  Marshall  indigestion  was  a  vocal 
affair  of  agonised  octaves.  After  a  final  look-round 
to  see  that  there  was  nothing  further  to  devour,  he 
hastened  down  to  the  village  to  buy  a  stamp. 

To  Little  Bilstead,  Tom  Bassingthwaighte  was  what 
a  tape-machine  is  to  a  London  club,  the  centre  of  in- 
terest in  times  of  crisis. 

By  a  strange  coincidence,  Miss  Mary  Jell,  on  hearing 
the  news,  also  found  herself  out  of  stamps,  and  was 
promptly  forbidden  to  go  near  the  village  until  "the 
danger  was  over."  Never  had  she  felt  more  like  rebel- 
lion. For  the  first  time  in  her  placid  and  docile  exist- 
ence, she  realised  the  disadvantages  of  a  sheltered  life. 

She  knew  that  her  sister  would  go  into  the  village 
to  see  that  everything  was  as  it  should  be.  Miss  Jell 
was  like  that.  She  would  eat  plums  when  they  first 
came  in  "to  see  if  they  were  ripe,"  and  then  forbid  her 
sister  to  touch  one  for  fear  of  cholera. 

How  wonderful  it  must  be  to  be  wicked,  was  Miss 


29*  THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

Mary's  half-expressed  thought,  as  she  picked  up  her 
knitting-needles  and  proceeded  with  what  Miss  Jell 
always  referred  to  as  "a  garment."  To  Miss  Jell, 
all  such  things  were  garments,  without  amplification, 
except  when  absolutely  necessary. 

The  news  caught  Colonel  Enderby  bolting  curry,  his 
bald  head  dotted  with  moisture — he  both  took  and 
gave  things  that  were  hot. 

Of  social  Little  Bilstead  he  was  first  upon  the  scene; 
for,  being  a  Anglo-Indian,  he  ate  curry  with  spoon  and 
fork,  which  considerably  increased  the  rate  of  intake. 

"What's  the  meaning  of  this,  Postle?"  he  barked, 
as  he  overtook  the  constable,  with  his  newly-polished 
boots,  just  outside  the  village. 

Postle  halted,  turned,  and  gaped  in  one  and  the  same 
movement.  The  "cunnel,"  as  he  called  him,  always 
had  the  same  effect  upon  the  Little  Bilstead  policeman, 
seeming  to  petrify  him. 

"Well,  confound  you!  Can't  you  answer?"  he 
shouted.  The  curry  had  not  settled  down  as  it  should. 

"I  see  Tom  Simmons,  I  did,"  Postle  sp'uttered,  "and 
he  say  to  me,  'John,  that  there  Bob  Thirkettle  be  back,' 
so  I—" 

"Be  damned  to  you !"  shouted  the  Colonel,  as  he 
strode  angrily  on,  leaving  the  gaping  Postle  to  follow  at 
his  own  pace.  He  had  never  been  able  to  settle  down 
to  the  detailed  narrative  style  of  the  Norfolk  rustic. 

At  the  sight  of  his  natural  enemy  stalking  towards 
the  post-office,  Tom  Bassingthwaighte  scuttled  to  cover 
like  a  frightened  rabbit,  leaving  his  sister  to  bear  the 
brunt  of  the  explosion  he  knew  was  coming.  The 
Colonel  might  threaten  to  "report"  her;  but,  even  if 
she  heard,  she  would  take  no  notice. 


LITTLE  BILSTEAD  ACHES  WITH  DRAMA        295 

The  demand  for  stamps  that  day,  in  small  numbers 
and  of  small  denominations,  constituted  a  record,  beat- 
ing by  three-halfpence  the  previous  highest  total, 
achieved  on  the  morning  following  the  sudden  and  un- 
expected appearance  of  Smith. 

The  fact  that  Tom  Bassingthwaighte  had  "gone  to 
earth"  was  as  great  a  disappointment  to  Little  Bil- 
stead  as  it  was  to  him;  but  the  Colonel  might  return 
at  any  moment,  and  the  village  postman  was  frankly 
afraid  of  his  bark. 

Once  in  the  village,  social  Little  Bilstead  was  rather 
at  a  loss  what  to  do.  It  could  not  go  on  buying  stamps, 
for  which  it  had  ostensibly  come.  Miss  Jell  alone 
showed  any  originality.  She  bought  some  matches, 
which  she  did  not  want,  and  a  periodical  she  had  no 
intention  of  reading. 

Mrs.  Truspitt-Greene  and  Mrs.  Crane  arrived  to- 
gether; but  from  different  ends  of  the  village.  Five 
minutes  later,  Mrs.  Spelman,  with  a  very  red  face  and 
no  breath,  was  seen  making  for  the  post-office  at  what 
was  practically  the  double.  She  had  been  the  last 
to  hear  the  news;  but  she  had  got  off  with  a  flying 
start  and  odd  shoes.  She  alone  of  all  her  set  made  no 
pretence  of  wanting  stamps.  She  came  for  scandal; 
bloodshed  if  possible,  but  certainly  scandal. 

"What  do  you  think  of  it?"  she  panted,  as  she 
rushed  up  to  Miss  Jell,  who  had  adopted  the  tactics 
of  walking  slowly  through  the  village  and  back,  as  if 
she  had  been  a  seaside  flapper,  and  Little  Bilstead  "the 
front." 

Miss  Jell  gazed  coldly  at  Mrs.  Spelman's  flushed 
features.  Without  waiting  for  a  reply,  or  a  further 
supply  of  breath,  Mrs.  Spelman  plunged  on. 


296        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

"I  only  heard  ten  minutes  ago!  Have  you  seen 
them?  Isn't  it  dreadful?  I  shall  scream  if  he  brings 
a  gun!  Where's  Postle?  It  will  be  in  all  the  papers! 
What  a  scandal!  Have  they  warned  him?" 

She  looked  about  her  at  the  little  groups  of  villagers, 
and  at  the  larger  group  in  front  of  The  Pigeons.  The 
air  was  electrical.  People  talked  in  hushed  voices,  and 
glanced  continually  in  the  direction  which  any  one  com- 
ing from  the  vicarage  must  take. 

Within  five  minutes,  Mrs.  Spelman  had  proved  a 
rallying  point.  Throwing  overboard  the  postage-stamp 
camouflage,  social  Little  Bilstead  gathered  about  her 
and  talked.  Colonel  Enderby  threw  out  denunciations 
like  squibs,  Mr.  Marshall,  who  had  now  been  joined  by 
his  daughter,  listened  with  his  mouth,  Mrs.  Truspitt- 
Greene  ascribed  the  tragedy  they  all  foresaw  to  the 
will  of  the  Almighty.  Miss  Jell  was  restrained  almost 
to  the  point  of  screaming.  Mrs.  Crane  looked  on  and, 
in  consequence,  saw  most  of  the  game;  whilst  from 
behind  a  tree  in  the  distance,  Miss  Mary  Jell  gazed 
longingly  towards  what  was  to  her  a  land  of  promise. 

Everybody  wondered  what  had  become  of  Postle. 
Colonel  Enderby  announced  his  intention  of  reporting 
him  by  telephone  to  the  Chief  Commissioner  at  Scot- 
land Yard. 

In  the  meantime,  the  village  constable  was  drinking 
a  mug  of  ale  in  the  private  parlour  of  The  Pigeons. 
Opposite  him  sat  a  big  black-bearded  man,  with  lower- 
ing brow  and  sullen,  smouldering  eye. 

"Now,  Bob,  I  can't  have  no  shooting,  bor,"  Postle 
remarked,  as  he  replaced  his  empty  mug  upon  the  table. 

"There  'oant  be  no  shootin',"  growled  the  bearded 
man;  "but  there  may  be  bloody  murder  for  all  that," 
and  he  picked  up  his  mug  and  drained  it  at  a  draught. 


LITTLE  BILSTEAD  ACHES  WITH  DRAMA        297 

III 

"Here  'e  be!    Here 'e  be!" 

A  small  boy  was  running  down  the  hill  at  breakneck 
speed  towards  the  village,  shouting  as  he  ran. 

A  thrill  passed  through  the  little  groups.  Every 
head  was  turned  in  the  direction  from  which  the  boy 
was  running. 

There  was  a  movement  among  the  crowd  outside 
The  Pigeons.  A  silence  fell  upon  every  one,  only  the 
shuffling  of  feet  upon  the  gritty  road  was  to  be  heard. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  murmur,  a  sort  of  moan  of 
expectancy,  such  as  preludes  the  cheers  with  which  a 
Boat  Race  is  acclaimed. 

All  eyes  were  directed  towards  the  top  of  the  hill, 
down  which  the  boy  was  running. 

There  was  a  gasp,  a  catching  of  many  breaths,  as 
Smith  appeared  round  the  bend  smoking  a  cigarette 
and  walking  as  if  nothing  had  happened,  or  was  likely 
to  happen. 

Why  he  had  lighted  the  cigarette,  he  did  not  know; 
probably  for  the  same  reason  that  the  hero  in  a  melo- 
drama falls  back  upon  tobacco  when  the  villain  has 
him  at  a  disadvantage.  It  emphasised  the  indifference 
he  was  far  from  feeling. 

In  spite  of  his  apparent  unconcern,  Smith  was  a 
little  staggered  at  the  sight  the  village  street  presented. 
It  seemed  as  if  the  whole  population  had  turned  out  in 
his  honour.  It  removed  from  his  mind  the  last  vestige 
of  doubt  that  he  was  on  the  eve  of  dramatic  develop- 
ments. 

As  he  approached,  he  noticed  a  movement  among 
those  gathered  outside  The  Pigeons.  A  moment  later 
a  heavily-built,  dark-whiskered  man  came  out.  For  a 


298        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

moment  he  stood  looking  about  him.  Then  with  a 
curious  shambling  gait  like  the  lope  of  a  bear,  he  pro- 
ceeded to  walk  in  the  direction  from  which  Smith  was 
approaching. 

Immediately  behind  him  came  Nudd,  with  Tom  Sim- 
mons in  attendance.  The  crowd  also  got  in  motion. 

As  Smith  regarded  the  huge  proportions  of  the  man 
approaching  him,  he  was  thankful  that  he  had  taken 
the  precaution  of  changing  his  boots  for  shoes.  With 
such  an  antagonist,  he  argued,  his  feet  would  be  of 
far  more  use  than  his  hands.  Only  by  nimble  foot- 
work could  he  hope  to  avoid  the  onslaught  of  some 
fourteen  or  fifteen  stone  of  muscle  and  flesh. 

If  the  man  were  a  scientific  boxer,  then  his  number 
was  up,  he  decided. 

Whatever  happened  it  would  have  to  be  short  and 
sharp,  as  far  as  he  was  concerned. 

With  outward  calm  and  unconcern,  he  approached 
the  black-bearded  man,  who  walked  some  four  or  five 
yards  in  front  of  the  crowd.  In  the  excitement  of  the 
moment  caste  was  forgotten.  Miss  Jell  found  herself 
clinging  to  the  coat-sleeve  of  Tom  Bassingthwaighte, 
whose  teeth  were  chattering  like  castanets.  Colonel 
Enderby  was  craning  forward  over  the  head  of  Millie 
Marjoram,  whilst  Mrs.  Truspitt-Greene,  Mrs.  Crane 
and  the  Marshalls  were  wedged  in  among  a  group  of 
farm-hands. 

Miss  Mary  Jell  was  actually  running  down  the  hill 
towards  the  scene  of  the  drama.  Human  frailty  had 
triumphed  over  her  fear  of  what  Jane  would  say. 

P.C.  Postle  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  Several  inti- 
mates had  made  it  clear  to  him  that  if  he  interfered 
there  would  be  trouble,  and  he  would  inevitably  be 
the  centre  of  it.  He  had  therefore  wisely  decided  to 


LITTLE  BILSTEAD  ACHES  WITH  DRAMA        299 

leave  The  Pigeons  by  the  back-entrance,  and  at  that 
moment  was  making  a  wide  detour,  in  the  hope  of 
being  in  at  the  death.  He  hated  missing  the  fight; 
but  it  was  difficult  to  see  how  he  could  stand  by  and 
watch  what  he  was  paid  to  prevent  from  taking  place. 

Smith  edged  a  little  to  the  right,  in  order  to  give  the 
man  an  opportunity  of  passing  him,  if  he  were  so  in- 
clined. Thirkettle,  on  the  other  hand,  left  no  doubt 
in  anybody's  mind  as  to  his  intentions.  At  the  sight 
of  Smith  edging  away,  he  evidently  thought  that  he 
meditated  flight. 

"Look  out,  together,"  he  cried  over  his  shoulder, 
obviously  to  friends  in  the  crowd  behind. 

When  within  a  few  yards  of  Thirkettle,  Smith 
stopped,  as  to  continue  would  have  meant  running  up 
against  him. 

"So  you've  returned,  bor,"  said  Thirkettle  insolently. 

Smith  eyed  him  with  calm  deliberation. 

"I  think  you  have  made  a  mistake,"  he  remarked 
quietly. 

Thirkettle  laughed  mirthlessly. 

"So  that's  your  lay,  is  it?"  he  cried;  "but  that  can't 
save  you.  I  suppose  you  aren't  Alfred  Warren." 
Then,  with  a  sudden  access  of  rage  he  broke  out,  "You 
mucky  slink.  You  know  what  you  done  to  my  poor 
mawther." 

Smith  flushed  slightly  at  the  insolence  of  the  man's 
tone.  Seeing  that  an  encounter  was  inevitable,  he 
kept  a  wary  eye  for  a  sudden  onslaught. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact  I  am  not  Mr.  Alfred  Warren." 
He  laid  a  slight  stress  upon  the  "Mr."  "I  have  never 
seen  you  before,  and  I  know  nothing  about  your  daugh- 
ter." 

Thirkettle    hesitated   a    moment,    he    seemed   non- 


300 

plussed  by  Smith's  quiet  and  deliberate  manner.  He 
had  expected  fear,  protestations,  abjectness.  He  was 
puzzled. 

"You  hear  him,  together,"  he  cried  over  his  shoulder. 

There  was  an  ominous  murmur  from  some  of  those 
grouped  behind  him. 

Turning  to  Smith  once  more,  he  said:  "I  was  going 
to  shoot  you,  as  I  should  ha'  done  seven  year  ago; 
but  now  I'm  just  goin'  to  break  every  bone  in  your 
stinkin'  body." 

With  that  he  proceeded  to  take  off  his  coat,  with  the 
studied  deliberation  of  a  man  who  knows  that  his 
quarry  cannot  escape  him.  This  he  threw  on  the 
ground,  his  hat  following.  He  then  began  turning  up 
his  shirt-sleeves. 

"One  moment,"  said  Smith  quietly.  "I  call  these 
people  to  witness  that  this  dispute  has  been  thrust 
upon  me.  Whatever  the  consequences,  the  responsibil- 
ity will  lie  entirely  with  you."  He  looked  straight  into 
Thirkettle's  blazing  eyes. 

He  had  scarcely  finished  speaking  before  the  fellow 
made  a  wild  rush  at  him,  head  down  and  arms  swing- 
ing. Although  Smith  had  been  speaking  to  those  be- 
hind Thirkettle,  his  eyes  had  been  fixed  upon  him. 
Swiftly  side-stepping,  he  let  him  blunder  past. 

With  a  feeling  of  relief,  Smith  realised  that  he  was 
opposed  to  nothing  more  than  brute  strength. 

Stumbling  on  for  three  or  four  paces  before  he  could 
stop  himself,  Thirkettle  turned.  He  appeared  sur- 
prised that  he  had  not  overwhelmed  his  opponent.  Ad- 
vancing again,  more  cautiously,  he  paused  for  a  sec- 
ond. Then,  making  a  sudden  dive  forward,  he  swung 
his  right  arm  with  a  force  that  would  have  stunned 


LITTLE  BILSTEAD  ACHES  WITH  DRAMA        301 

an  ox — had  it  landed.  Smith  ducked  and,  before  his 
man  could  recover,  had  got  home  with  his  left  be- 
tween the  eyes.  Thirkettle  staggered  and  up  went  his 
guard,  letting  in  a  half-armed  right  full  in  the  mouth. 

With  a  grunt  Thirkettle  sat  down  in  the  road,  gaz- 
ing about  him  with  eyes  that  blinked  their  astonish- 
ment. Murmurs  rose  from  the  crowd,  murmurs  of 
surprise  and  encouragement,  coupled  with  urgings  to 
Bob  Thirkettle  to  give  him  the  ucosh"  he  seemed  un- 
able to  administer,  whilst  a  shrill  voice  was  heard  cry- 
ing, "Do  it  again!  Oh!  do  it  again!"  It  was  Miss 
Mary  Jell;  but  no  one  appeared  to  take  any  notice, 
they  were  too  stunned  at  what  had  taken  place. 

"Go  it,  Mist'  Alfred!"  roared  one. 

"Remember  Dick  Marsh!" 

"Don't  you  be  afraid,  bor." 

Miss  Jell  was  now  clasping  Tom  Bassingthwaighte's 
arm  with  both  hands.  Millie  Marjoram  was  gripping 
Colonel  Enderby's  hand  with  moist  and  trembling 
fingers.  Mrs.  Truspitt-Greene  was  making  curious 
little  noises  at  the  back  of  her  throat;  whilst  Mrs.  Spel- 
man  had  just  heard  herself  shout  quite  loudly,  "Kill 
him!  Kill  him!" 

Slowly  Thirkettle  picked  himself  up  and  spat  the 
blood  from  his  mouth.  From  the  look  in  his  eyes  it 
was  obvious  he  had  received  a  severe  shock,  both  physi- 
cal and  mental.  For  the  next  few  minutes  he  was 
caution  personified.  He  seemed  dazed. 

Smith  early  realised  two  things.  First  that  it  would 
be  useless  to  attempt  body-blows  on  a  man  with  the 
physique  of  a  bear;  second  that,  unless  the  whole  affair 
were  over  quickly,  the  man's  superior  strength  would 
wear  him  down.  He  therefore  decided  to  force  the 


302        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

pace,  trusting  to  his  science  to  make  up  for  the  physical 
disparity.  Thirkettle's  obvious  object  was  to  clinch, 
and  then  Smith  knew  that  Queensberry  rules  would 
avail  him  nothing. 

The  man  was  clearly  afraid  for  his  face,  his  whole 
scheme  of  defence  being  to  protect  it  from  another 
double  blow  such  as  he  had  received. 

The  crowd  began  to  get  excited. 

"Go  it,  Bob,  give  him  cosh." 

"He's  afraid.  Remember  what  he  did  to  your 
mawther,"  and  similar  remarks  were  shouted. 

For  more  than  a  minute  the  two  men  moved  slowly 
round,  each  watching  for  an  opportunity. 

Thirkettle  was  endeavouring  to  manoeuvre  Smith  into 
a  position  where  with  a  mighty  rush  he  could  force 
him  into  the  hedge  that  bordered  the  road. 

Smith  recognised  that  his  principal  danger  lay  in  the 
onlookers,  who  were  pressing  close  upon  them.  Were 
he  to  trip  over  their  friendly,  or  unfriendly  limbs,  Thir- 
kettle would  be  upon  him  in  a  moment. 

Suddenly  he  became  aware  that  the  pressure  of  the 
crowd  had  lessened.  He  heard  voices,  urging  the  peo- 
ple to  stand  back.  One  was  shrill  and  excited,  crack- 
ing frequently  upon  the  high  notes;  but  he  saw  nothing. 
His  eyes  never  left  those  two  smouldering  agates  of 
hate,  glowering  out  at  him  from  what  looked  like  a 
mass  of  black  hair. 

For  nearly  two  minutes  Thirkettle  continued  his 
cautious  tactics.  It  was  obvious  that  his  slow  brain  was 
working  to  find  some  explanation  of  what  had  hap- 
pened. 

Smith  realised  that  his  opponent  would  not  be  able 
to  continue  indefinitely  such  unaccustomed  methods,  and 
he  watched  him  narrowly. 


LITTLE  BILSTEAD  ACHES  WITH  DRAMA        SOS 

Several  times  Thirkettle  made  clumsy  feints;  but  as 
Smith  was  watching  his  eyes  and  not  his  hands,  he 
appeared  to  take  no  notice. 

Emboldened  by  this  fact,  he  made  another  sudden 
dash,  this  time  with  his  right  forearm  held  high  to 
shield  his  face. 

Smith  swiftly  side-stepped  to  the  left;  but  by  some 
uncanny  instinct  Thirkettle  seemed  to  anticipate  the 
move,  and  the  next  Smith  knew  was  that  what  ap- 
peared to  be  a  thunderbolt  had  caught  him  on  the 
right  shoulder,  flooring  him  as  if  he  had  been  a  skittle. 

Fortunately  he  had  been  moving  from  the  blow, 
the  force  of  which  swung  Thirkettle  round  in  a  half 
turn;  but  he  was  round  again  in  a  second. 

Seeing  Smith  on  the  ground,  he  gave  vent  to  a  roar. 
To  him  the  fight  seemed  over.  Miss  Mary  screamed, 
the  crowd  roared,  a  shrill  voice  yelled  to  Smith  to 
get  up. 

Before  Thirkettle  realised  what  was  happening,  how- 
ever, Smith  was  on  his  feet  again  and  had  got  home 
a  stinging  blow  on  the  side  of  the  enemy's  head. 

The  crowd  yelled.  Never  had  Little  Bilstead  known 
such  drama. 

Smith  decided  that  in  forcing  the  pace  with  a  heavier 
man,  it  was  desirable  to  be  cautious  as  well  as  enter- 
prising. Had  he  been  moving  towards,  instead  of 
away  from  the  blow,  he  would,  in  all  probability,  have 
lain  long  enough  on  the  ground  to  give  Thirkettle  the 
chance  he  sought. 

Amid  a  babel  of  shouts  and  exhortations,  the  men 
fought  on,  Smith  landing  blow  after  blow  until  he  be- 
gan to  wonder  if  it  were  possible  to  knock  out  the 
mountain  of  flesh  and  muscle  before  him. 

Suddenly   he   remembered  Old   Plum's   recipe   for 


304        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

knocking  out  an  unscientific  fighter  of  a  heavier  weight. 
"Tap  at  the  front  door,  he  would  say,  then  down  you 
goes  to  the  basement,  and  ruddy  'ard,"  had  been  his 
dictum. 

Leading  for  the  head,  Smith  got  his  man  on  the 
nose.  Up  went  Thirkettle's  guard.  It  was  what  Smith 
was  waiting  for,  the  ring  at  the  basement!  With  a 
mighty  effort  he  swung  his  right  full  at  Thirkettle's 
solar  plexus,  with  all  his  weight  behind  the  blow. 

With  a  sobbing  grunt,  Thirkettle's  guard  dropped. 
The  first  blow  had  arrested  a  rush;  the  second  seemed 
to  daze  him.  Before  he  had  time  to  recover,  Smith 
landed  his  left  between  the  eyes,  and  Thirkettle's  guard 
dropped  still  lower.  With  a  terrific  right  hook,  Smith 
got  his  man  on  the  point  of  the  jaw,  and  Bob  Thirkettle 
went  down  like  a  log. 

And  Little  Bilstead  went  mad  for  the  second  time 
that  month. 


CHAPTER  XXI 


"A/ITARJIE!     Marjie!    Where  are  you?" 

IVj  -^r^c  Cashed  across  the  lawn  of  The 
Grange  as  if  the  Seven  Deadly  Sins  were 
pursuing  him. 

Marjorie  appeared  at  the  French  windows  of  the 
morning-room,  of  which  she  had  taken  possession  since 
Lady  Warren's  departure. 

Eric  made  towards  her  at  full  tilt.  She  turned  back 
into  the  grey  room  out  of  the  sun's  glare,  Eric  fol- 
lowing. 

"Such  a  fight!"  he  gasped,  as  he  threw  himself  down 
into  Lady  Warren's  favourite  chair.  "It — " 

"A  fight!"    She  turned  suddenly.    "Who?    What?" 

The  colour  had  left  her  cheeks.  She  was  conscious 
that  she  was  trembling. 

"Smith  and  Thirk,"  he  panted.  "I've  run  all  the 
way.  I've — "  He  paused  from  sheer  lack  of  oxygen. 

"Tell  me,  Eric."  She  dropped  into  the  nearest  chair, 
conscious  of  a  curious  sensation  of  weakness  in  her 
knees.  "Tell  me,  Eric,"  she  repeated,  a  note  of  sharp- 
ness in  her  voice. 

"All  right,"  he  panted.  "Let  a  fellow  get  his  wind 
first.  I've  run  all  the  way  to  tell  you,  and  Mrs.  Higgs 
gave  me  treacle  pudding  for  lunch." 

"Is — is  he  hurt?"  she  interrupted,  conscious  that  even 
to  herself  her  voice  sounded  strange. 

305 


306        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

"Hurt!"  cried  Eric.  "You  should  have  seen  him, 
all  blood  and  grunts,"  and  his  eyes  sparkled  at  the 
recollection  of  the  Homeric  encounter  he  had  been 
privileged  to  witness.  "A  lot  of  'em  thought  he  was 
dead  at  first." 

"Ooooooh!"  she  cried  faintly.  "Where  is  he? 
Have  they  taken  him  to  the  vicarage?  Oh,  Eric!"  she 
added,  conscious  that  he  was  looking  at  her  curiously. 

Suddenly  he  grinned.  Having  realised  her  mistake, 
he  decided  to  delay  the  dramatic  revelation.  Like  a 
good  wine,  it  would  improve  with  keeping. 

"Knocked  him  clean  out.  Like  old  Carp.  Oh !  Mar- 
jie,  you've  missed  the — " 

"Don't,  Eric,  please !"  She  turned  her  head  aside 
with  a  shudder. 

"They  were  trying  to  bring  him  to  with  a  bucket 
of  water  when  I  left,"  he  added. 

"Is  he  much  hurt?"  In  her  mind's  eye  she  saw 
a  bruised  and  bleeding  face,  out  of  which  gazed  a 
pair  of  reproachful  blue  eyes.  He  had  remained  to 
show  her  he  was  not  afraid.  If  she  had  urged  him  to 
go  away,  he  would  have  gone.  Perhaps  he  would  have 
gone  if  she  had  not  said  anything  at  all.  It  was  all 
her  fault.  Of  course  he  couldn't  hope  to — 

"Old  End  wanted  Postle  to  run  him  in." 

The  words  seemed  to  break  through  the  curtain  of 
her  thoughts. 

"You  should  have  seen  the  vicar,"  he  continued, 
gloating  over  the  episodes  of  the  afternoon  in  retro- 
spect. "Rare  old  sport.  He  and  I  kept  the  ring.  If 
we  hadn't  he'd  have  lost.  Crowding  him  like  a — " 

"Whatever  are  you  talking  about?"  cried  Marjorie, 
totally  at  sea  as  a  result  of  Eric's  scare-headline  form 
of  conversation. 


MARJORIE  HEARS  THE  NEWS  307 

"The  vicar  told  Old  End  that  he  was  the,  what 
d'you  call  it,  and — " 

"Who?" 

"Thirk,  of  course.  You  want  your  brain  spring- 
cleaned,  Marjie.  I'm  telling  you  and  you  keep  on  say- 
ing 'who'  and  'what.'  I'm  jolly  well  going  to  get  him 
to  teach  me." 

"Who?    Teach  you  what?"  she  stammered. 

"There  you  go  again.  'Who — What?'  "  he  mim- 
icked. "We're  not  playing  'How,  When  and  Where.' 
I  tell  you  it  was  the  biggest  thing  that  ever  was. 
Knocked  Carp  and  Demp  into  a  tea-fight.  My  hat! 
You  should  have  seen  old  Thirk  go  down.  It — " 

"Eric,  tell—" 

"There  you—" 

Marjorie  jumped  up  and,  gripping  his  arm,  shook 
him  impatiently. 

"Who  went  down?"  she  demanded,  almost  fiercely. 

"Thirk — Leggo,  you're  hurting,"  he  yelled. 

She  released  his  arm;  but  continued  to  stand  over 
him. 

"He  hadn't  a  chance.  Smith  got  him  on  the  point, 
and  he  went  down  like  a  sack.  It  was  spif." 

Marjorie  felt  the  blood  flood  to  her  face,  then  drain 
away  again.  She  sank  on  to  the  arm  of  Eric's  chair, 
clutching  at  the  back  for  support. 

In  a  vague  way  she  was  conscious  that  Eric  was 
adding  details  to  what  he  had  already  told  her.  He 
was  filling  in  the  lacunae  in  his  previous  story.  She 
seemed  able  to  visualise  the  village  street,  as  if  from 
a  height,  with  its  dark  crowd  of  pressing,  peering  hu- 
manity. In  the  centre  two  men  were  gasping,  pant- 
ing, moving.  One  was  dark,  his  face  threatening  and 
blood-stained.  The  other  was  fair,  a  determined  light 


308        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

in  his  blue  eyes.  She  even  heard  the  thud  of  blows. 
She  saw  the  dark  man  stagger — she  clutched — 

"Leggo  my  hair!" 

In  a  flash  the  picture  was  gone,  and  she  found  her- 
self clutching  a  handful  of  Eric's  fiery-coloured  hair. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you  to-day,  Marjie?"  he 
demanded,  as  he  rubbed  his  sore  scalp.  "You  off  your 
crump?" 

Suddenly  she  put  an  arm  round  his  neck  and  drew 
his  head  towards  her.  He  wriggled  loose  and,  jumping 
up  from  the  chair,  made  for  the  door,  announcing  his 
intention  of  conveying  the  good  news  to  Willis  and 
Mrs.  Higgs.  He  had  suddenly  realised 'that  some  one 
might  anticipate  him,  and  it  was  almost  like  another 
fight,  hurling  these  dramatic  bombs  about  and  watching 
them  explode. 

Marjorie  did  not  tell  him  that  she  had  just  sent 
Willis  down  to  the  village  for  news. 

II 

The  remainder  of  the  afternoon  was  spent  by  Little 
Bilstead  in  soul-searching  and  mutual  recrimination. 

When  Postle  had  arrived  upon  the  scene,  it  was  to 
find  the  biggest  crowd  he  ever  remembered  to  have  seen 
in  Little  Bilstead.  In  the  centre  of  it  were  the  vicar 
and  Smith  on  their  knees  beside  the  prostrate  form  of 
Bob  Thirkettle,  bringing  him  to  by  chafing  his  limbs 
and  sponging  his  face  with  cold  water  from  a  bucket. 

The  sight  of  Postle  seemed  to  bring  to  Colonel 
Enderby  a  realisation  of  his  responsibilities.  He 
promptly  demanded  to  know  the  meaning  of  the  police- 
man's absence  at  the  very  hour  that  Little  Bilstead  had 
been  most  in  need  of  his  professional  services. 


MARJORIE  HEARS  THE  NEWS  309 

Postle  tilted  his  helmet  on  to  the  back  of  his  head, 
and  proceeded  to  rub  his  chin  with  the  pad  of  his  right 
thumb,  as  he  gazed  at  the  business-like  ministrations  of 
the  vicar  and  Smith  upon  the  inert  figure  of  the  re- 
doubtable Thirkettle. 

"He's  copped  it  a  rum  un,"  was  his  thought,  his 
sporting  instincts  triumphing  over  his  official  discretion. 

It  soon  became  manifest,  however,  that  "the  cunnel 
had  his  rag  out,"  as  Postle  was  wont  to  express  it  to 
himself,  sometimes,  in  his  more  expansive  moments, 
even  to  his  intimates. 

Colonel  Enderby  let  himself  go,  the  curry  had 
digested  indifferently  well,  and  he  was  conscious  that  he 
had  been  shouting  encouragements  to  the  vanquished 
champion.  As  a  result,  when  Bob  Thirkettle  at  length 
opened  his  eyes,  it  was  to  find  that  another  battle  was 
being  waged  over  his  recumbent  form. 

Colonel  Enderby  had  demanded  the  arrest  of  Smith, 
had  threatened  to  report  Postle,  and  promised  Little 
Bilstead  dire  penalties  for  its  lapse  into  Bolshevism, 
as  he  regarded  this  open  flouting  of  his  views  and 
opinions. 

Murmurs  of  "Give  over,"  "The  duzzy  fule,"  and 
"Hold  your  nose"  were  to  be  heard  on  all  sides. 

Colonel  Enderby  looked  about  him  in  astonishment. 

He  was  an  autocrat  getting  his  first  whiff  of  revo- 
lution. 

That  afternoon  Little  Bilstead  made  it  abundantly 
clear  to  him  that  any  man  who  desired  the  presence  of 
a  policeman  to  spoil  the  most  enjoyable  fight  of  their 
lives  was  worthy  neither  of  his  position  as  an  officer 
nor  the  respect  accorded  to  a  gentleman. 

At  length  he  fled,  or,  as  he  regarded  it,  withdrew 
with  flags  flying  and  drums  beating.  He  even  returned 


310        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

the  enemy's  fire;  but  his  aim  was  bad,  and  his  ammu- 
nition defective,  as  the  frequent  laughs  at  his  expense 
testified. 

As  Mrs.  Spelman  remarked  the  next  day  to  Mrs. 
Pelham,  who  had  "missed  everything,"  "It  was  really 
most  embarrassing.  Fortunately  I  didn't  know  the 
meaning  of  a  lot  of  the  words  the  Colonel  used;  but 
I'm  sure  they  were  dreadful." 

When  Smith  saw  that  there  was  no  longer  any  doubt 
about  Thirkettle  coming  round,  he  rose  and,  with  a 
word  to  Nudd  about  what  to  do,  linked  his  arm  through 
that  of  the  vicar,  and  led  him  in  the  direction  of  the 
vicarage. 

He  was  anxious  to  get  a  hot  bath,  conscious  that  his 
shoulder  was  already  manifesting  an  unpleasant  tend- 
ency to  stiffen. 

It  was  not  until  Thirkettle  had  dropped  with  a  thud 
in  the  roadway  that  he  realised  that  the  taller  of  the 
two  figures  that  had  been  so  active  in  keeping  the  ring, 
was  no  other  than  the  vicar.  He  realised  that,  but  for 
the  old  man's  presence,  coupled  with  his  obvious  knowl- 
edge of  the  requirements  of  a  quick-footed  fighter,  it 
would,  in  all  probability,  have  been  he  and  not  Thir- 
kettle who  would  have  taken  the  count. 

Several  times  the  vicar  murmured  something  that  to 
Smith  was  unintelligible.  At  length,  however,  he  distin- 
guished that  it  was  a  repetition  of  his  unvarying  re- 
frain, when  dissatisfied  with  his  own  conduct,  "I  must 
really  see  the  bishop." 

He  realised  that  the  old  man  was  passing  through 
the  fire  of  self-reproach  for  his  part  in  the  afternoon's 
happenings. 

As  they  came  opposite  the  gate  of  The  Grange, 


MARJORIE  HEARS  THE  NEWS  311 

lis  was  standing  just  inside  by  the  lodge.  Smith  paused, 
the  vicar  continuing  his  way,  as  if  unconscious  that  he 
were  not  alone. 

"Did  you  see  him,  Mr.  Alfred?"  Willis  asked  in  a 
hoarse  whisper,  looking  anxiously  about  lest  some  one 
should  overhear. 

"Did  I  see  whom?"  asked  Smith,  as  he  lighted  a 
cigarette. 

"Bob  Thirkettle,  sir." 

"I  did." 

"Did  he — "    He  paused  in  his  eagerness. 

"He  did,  my  good  Willis,  and  instead  of  killing  the 
fatted  calf,  he  strove  to  slay  the  prodigal  instead." 

"What  did  he  do,  Mr.  Alfred?  Did  he— did  he 
threaten  to — "  He  hesitated. 

"I'm  afraid  I  loosened  most  of  his  teeth,  Willis." 

"You  didn't  fight  him,  sir."  His  eyes  travelled  over 
Smith's  face  and  figure,  as  if  for  the  signs  of  defeat  he 
felt  must  be  there. 

"I'm  afraid  I  did,"  said  Smith  with  a  smile. 

"And  you  beat  him,  sir?" 

"That  I  think  was  the  general  impression."  He 
was  amused  at  the  old  man's  eagerness. 

"You  beat  Bob  Thirkettle,  Mr.  Alfred?"  There 
was  incredulity  in  his  tone. 

"When  I  left  him  he  was  lying  on  his  back,  just  com- 
ing to  and  trying  to  puzzle  out  how  it  had  all  hap- 
pened." 

"Mr.  Alfred!  Mr.  Alfred!"  was  all  Willis  could 
say.  "When  I  heard  you  had  gone,  I  thought,  I  thought 
he  would  kill  you." 

"And  were  you  coming  to  save  me,  Willis?" 

"I  was  just  going  down  to  the  village,  sir,"  he  said 


312        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

simply.  "I  couldn't  stay  in  the  house."  Willis  was  a 
bad  liar;  but  he  realised  that  he  could  not  say  that  Miss 
Marjorie  had  sent  him. 

"Well,  I'm  all  right,  you  see,"  Smith  smiled.  "Now 
I  must  try  and  catch  up  with  the  vicar,"  and  he  passed 
on  up  the  road,  leaving  Willis  gazing  after  him,  a  look 
in  his  eyes  that  plainly  spoke  the  hero-worship  in  his 
heart. 

As  he  entered  the  vicarage,  he  heard  the  vicar  saying : 
"But,  Hannah,  I  have  a  distinct  recollection  of  feel- 
ing satisfaction  when  he  was  knocked  out.    I  even  think 
I  said  'Splendid !'     I  must  see  the  bishop,  Hannah.     I 
fear  I  am  not  worthy  to  be  the  shepherd  of  a  flock." 

"Well?"  she  demanded,  as  Smith  approached,  the 
vicar  seizing  the  opportunity  to  escape  to  his  study. 
"What  is  this  I  hear?" 

There  was  something  almost  like  a  twinkle  in  her 
eyes,  he  thought. 

"I've  been  carrying  the  sweetening  process  to  its 
logical  conclusion,"  he  replied  gravely,  "at  least,  I  hope 
it's  the  conclusion." 

"I  hope  you  realise  that  you  have  involved  the  vicar 
in  a  parish  scandal.  I  understand  he  acted  as  a  sort  of 
master  of  the  ceremonies."  She  had  heard  the  story 
from  Janet,  who  learned  everything  almost  as  soon  as 
it  happened;  for  Janet  was  comely,  possessed  of  many 
admirers,  and  loved  scandal. 

Without  waiting  for  a  reply,  Miss  Lipscombe  turned 
and  led  the  way  into  the  drawing-room,  where  she 
seated  herself  in  the  most  upright  chair  it  contained, 
folded  her  hands  before  her,  and  waited. 

In  a  few  words  Smith  outlined  what  had  taken  place, 
and  how  he  had  been  involved  in  the  fight  in  spite  of 
himself. 


313 

"And  that  is  what  you  call  sweetening  a  man's  mem- 
ory, is  it?"  she  demanded,  when  he  had  finished. 

"It  was  part  of  the  process,"  he  admitted. 

"Your  methods  savour  of  the  Mohammedan,"  was 
the  retort.  "May  I  enquire  what  is  the  next  step  you 
propose?"  she  enquired  drily. 

"To  pursue  the  analogy,"  he  said,  "my  Hegira.  I 
am  leaving  Little  Bilstead  in  a  day  or  two." 

"Leaving!"    There  was  surprise  in  her  tone. 

"Yes." 

"Why?" 

"The  sweetening  process  is  almost  concluded." 

"Fiddlesticks !"  she  cried.  "Just  because  you've 
thrashed  a  bully,  you  think — "  She  paused.  "What 
will  Lady  Warren  say  when  she  returns?" 

"I  hope  to  be  able  to  give  her  news  of  her  son." 

Miss  Lipscombe's  rigid  figure  seemed  to  become  even 
more  rigid;  she  continued  to  regard  him,  keen  enquiry 
in  her  eyes. 

"I  believe  Alfred  Warren  to  be  dead  and — "  He 
paused. 

"And — ?"  She  stopped  suddenly,  her  hand  raised 
to  her  heart. 

"I  think  I  shall  be  able  to  prove  it,"  he  added  quietly, 
"but  I  would  rather  say  nothing  more  at  present." 

For  some  time  neither  spoke.  It  was  Smith  who 
finally  broke  the  silence. 

"We  only  know  the  Alfred  Warren  of  up  to  1914," 
he  said,  as  if~to  himself.  "Perhaps — "  He  left  the 
sentence  unfinished. 

"I  have  often  wondered,"  she  said,  an  unusual  note 
of  softness  in  her  voice.  "I  was  fond  of  him,  Mr. 
Smith,"  she  added  a  little  huskily.  "You  see,  I  was 
his  godmother." 


314        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

"Is  that  why  you  wanted  to  see  his  memory  sweet- 
ened?" he  enquired. 

"Perhaps  it  was,"  she  admitted.  "I'm  a  selfish  old 
woman.  But  it's  done  you  no  harm?"  Her  tone  was 
that  of  enquiry  rather  than  assertion. 

He  shook  his  head.  It  was  difficult  to  express  ex- 
actly what  Alfred  Warren  had  done  for  him.  He  now 
seemed  to  see  quite  a  lot  of  things  in  detail  that  hitherto 
had  been  either  outlines  or  mere  blurs.  He  could 
no  longer  contemplate  a  life  such  as  he  had  led  before 
the  war.  There  must  be  action,  progression.  He 
must — 

"He  was  to  have  married  Marjorie." 

The  words  seemed  to  scatter  his  thoughts  like  a  dog 
a  lot  of  hens. 

"He!  Who?"  he  asked  vaguely,  although  conscious 
of  who  it  was  she  meant. 

"Alfred,"  she  said.  "At  least,  that  was  Lady  War- 
ren's wish." 

"And  Marjorie?"  He  could  not  restrain  the  ques- 
tion. 

"She  was  too  young  at  the  time  to  know,"  was  the 
reply.  "Perhaps  she  was  being  reserved  for  some  one 
else,"  she  added;  "and  now  go  and  get  changed  out  of 
your  fighting  clothes;  there  are  soda-scones  for  tea." 

As  he  walked  slowly  upstairs,  it  was  of  Marjorie  he 
was  thinking,  not  of  Miss  Lipscombe's  soda-scones, 
although  they  had  been  made  specially  for  him  as  his 
favourite  tea-table  dainty. 

"Married  to  Marjorie !"  he  muttered,  as  he  closed 
his  door.  "Perhaps  that  was  why." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE    UNMASKING   OF    SMITH 

"T  TE  shall  hear  what  I  have  to  say,"  exploded 
Sir  John  Hildreth  angrily.  Then,  without 
waiting  for  a  reply,  he  continued,  "Here  am 
I  dashing  all  over  the  country,  inserting  advertise- 
ments, thinking  of  notifying  the  police  even,  whilst  that 
infernal  young — " 

"The  police  must  have  been  a  recent  idea,  John,"  put 
in  Mrs.  Compton-Stacey,  quietly.  "This  is  the  first  I 
have  heard  of  it." 

"Don't  interrupt  me,  Charlotte,"  he  cried,  ,jicking 
up  the  thread  of  his  discourse.  "I  have  every  reason 
to  be  annoyed,  being  led  this  wild-goose  chase  about  the 
country,  when  I  might  have  been,  er — "  He  paused, 
blinking  uncertainly.  It  was  annoying  not  to  be  able  to 
think  of  anything  else  he  might  have  been  doing. 

"There  was  nothing  you  could  have  been  doing, 
John,"  said  Mrs.  Compton-Stacey  placidly,  "except 
reading  trashy  novels,  or  bullying  poor — " 

"They're  not  trashy,  and  I  don't  bully,"  he  retorted 
lamely.  "I — I  expostulate  occasionally.  If  it  hadn't 
been  for  the  idea  I  got  out  of  a  novel,  we  shouldn't 
have  found  Darrell,"  he  added  with  inspiration. 

"And  if  you  hadn't  bullied  him  because  his  taste  in 
women  was  not  your  own,  we  should  not  have  lost 
him,"  she  replied  calmly.  "Besides,  we  haven't  found 
him  yet,"  she  added. 

There  was  silence  for  several  minutes.  Sir  John 
was  grappling  with  his  sister's  logic. 

315 


316        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

"What  should  we  do  without  the  robin,"  she  said 
presently,  as  a  burst  of  song  broke  through  the  mo- 
notonous hum  of  the  car. 

"Damn  the  robin!"  he  exploded.  He  disliked 
irrelevancies. 

"When  you  get  in  this  mood,  John,  you  condemn 
everybody  and  everything  except  the  one  person  you 
would  like  to  condemn  most,  myself,"  she  remarked 
presently,  turning  to  get  a  better  view  of  his  frowning 
face. 

"Don't  talk  a  lot  of  confounded  nonsense!"  he 
snapped;  but  the  tint  of  his  neck  belied  the  irascibility 
of  his  words.  With  Sir  John  anger  always  flew  to  his 
neck.  Mrs.  Compton-Stacey  could  read  the  signs  with 
ease — puce  meant  ungovernable  fury. 

The  ghost  of  a  smile  fluttered  about  the  corners  of 
her  mouth,  and  her  hand  fell  lightly  upon  his.  No 
one  else  had  ever  discovered  the  secret  of  how  to  handle 
John  Hildreth. 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  Charlotte!"  he  cried;  but  he  did 
not  withdraw  his  hand.  These  occasional  touches  of 
sentiment  meant  more  to  him  than  he  would  allow, 
even  to  himself.  "It's  all  your  fault." 

"What  is  my  fault?"  she  enquired  calmly. 

"You've  always  spoiled  him,  ever  since  he  was  a 
baby";  but  the  tone  in  which  the  accusation  was  made 
seemed  to  lack  conviction. 

Mrs.  Compton-Stacey  smiled  behind  her  motoring- 
veil.  The  few  really  serious  disagreements  they  had 
ever  had  were  the  outcome  of  her  having  been,  as  her 
brother  expressed  it,  "too  hard  on  the  boy." 

The  next  mile  was  covered  in  silence,  Sir  John  being 
occupied  in  going  feverishly  through  his  pockets,  with 
the  air  of  a  man  who  has  lost  something  of  value. 


THE  UNMASKING  OF  SMITH  317 

"What  are  you  looking  for,  John?"  she  enquired,  at 
length. 

"That  infernal  letter!"  he  muttered.  "I  know  I 
brought  it  with  me." 

"You  gave  it  to  me  to  mind,"  she  said,  opening  her 
hand-bag  and  producing  an  envelope. 

"Then  why  couldn't  you  say  so?"  he  cried.  "In- 
stead of  letting  me  search  every  pocket  I've  got  half-a- 
dozen  times  over." 

Snatching  the  envelope  from  her,  he  tore  out  the 
contents,  a  single  sheet  of  cheap  notepaper,  with  a 
grease-spot  in  the  right-hand  bottom  corner,  and  for 
the  twentieth  time  that  day  he  read: 

Dear  Sirs 

I  am  the  post  man  at  Little  Bilstead  and  seeing 
your  advert  for  James  Smith  I  hasten  to  aply. 
He  is  here  and  being  wached.  Come  at  once  and 
bring  money  with  you. 

Ask  for  Mr.  Bassingthwaighte  at  the  post 
Office  and  tell  noone  it  is  seerious  and  we  have  a 
poliseman  here  your  respectfull  servant 

T.  Bassingthwaighte. 

"Confound  the  fellow!"  was  his  comment,  as  he 
folded  the  letter  and  replaced  it  in  the  envelope,  which 
he  handed  to  his  sister;  but  whether  it  was  the  postman 
or  his  own  nephew  he  desired  confounded  was  not 
clear. 

"Bassingthwaighte,"  he  muttered.  "Absurd  name." 
That  morning  he  was  prepared  to  disagree  with  every- 
body and  criticise  everything. 

It  was  characteristic  of  Sir  John  Hildreth  that,  when 
anxious,  or  if  sentiment  showed  any  tendency  to  obtrude 
itself,  he  invariably  manifested  irritation.  He  would 


318        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

give  a  beggar  half-a-crown  and  tell  him  to  go  to  the 
devil,  whereas  another  man  would  make  it  twopence 
and  a  suggestion  that  he  should  get  work.  His  ideal 
of  an  Englishman  was  even  more  austere  than  that  of 
the  public  schoolboy.  No  display  of  emotion,  a  soft 
emotion  that  is,  was  permissible,  even  in  thought.  He 
was  a  Spartan,  destitute  of  the  cloak  of  philosophy. 

That  morning,  as  Mrs.  Compton-Stacey  was  having 
breakfast  on  the  lawn,  she  had  been  interrupted  by  the 
sound  of  a  car  being  driven  furiously  up  the  drive,  its 
Klaxon  horn  in  continuous  action.  She  had  recognised 
both  the  horn  and  her  brother's  impetuosity  behind.  If 
ever  he  were  excited  and  came  over  to  seek  her  advice, 
he  invariably  arrived  with  the  Klaxon  horn  in  full  blast, 
so  that  she  might  be  ready  to  receive  him;  but  never 
had  she  known  anything  quite  so  violent. 

Rising  from  her  meal,  she  had  gone  to  the  edge  of 
the  lawn  bordering  the  drive;  a  moment  later  the  car 
came  into  view,  and  amidst  sparking  tyres,  Chivers,  the 
chauffeur,  had  brought  it  to  a  standstill  opposite  her,  a 
sheepish  look  upon  his  good-humoured  face.  He 
always  looked  sheepish  when  arriving  "with  the  band," 
as  he  called  it  in  the  servants'  hall,  that  is  when  Sir 
John  told  him  to  keep  up  a  continuous  blast  upon  the 
horn. 

"I've  found  him!"  Sir  John  had  shouted  at  the  sight 
of  his  sister,  then  he  had  bounced  out  of  the  car,  shout- 
ing to  Chivers  to  tune  it  up  for  a  long  run. 

He  had  displayed  the  letter  from  the  Little  Bilstead 
postman,  with  the  air  of  one  who  has  reason  to  feel 
pleased  with  himself.  He  informed  her  that  he  was 
motoring  over  to  Norfolk  at  once,  and  that  she  was 
going  with  him. 


THE  UNMASKING  OF  SMITH  319 

Having  nothing  else  particularly  to  occupy  her,  she 
had  consented,  and  within  half-an-hour  they  were  hum- 
ming along  due  east,  a  look  of  quiet  content  upon 
Chivers'  face.  He  had  been  told  to  "let  her  out  and 
damn  the  fines,"  and  that,  to  Sir  John  Hildreth's  chauf- 
feur meant  bliss,  although  to  the  roadside  fauna  it 
meant  syncope,  or  death — sometimes  both. 

With  characteristic  impulsiveness,  Sir  John  had  for- 
gotten that  even  the  best  of  cars  can  scarcely  go  from 
Wiltshire  to  Norfolk  and  back  in  a  day,  and  he  had 
made  no  provision  for  the  night.  Chivers,  however,  in 
collusion  with  Sir  John's  man,  had  corrected  the 
omission.  At  that  moment  there  reposed  on  the  seat 
beside  the  chauffeur  a  suit-case  with  all  the  necessary 
equipment  by  which  a  gentleman  can  go  to  sleep  at 
night  and  perform  his  toilet  in  the  morning. 

In  spite  of  his  explosive  nature,  Sir  John  Hildreth 
was  worshipped  by  his  servants.  He  was  just,  generous 
and  "white,"  and  although  he  damned  them  all  with 
the  utmost  impartiality,  they  knew  that  their  troubles, 
when  they  came,  would  be  his  troubles,  and  his  purse 
theirs. 

It  was  nearly  four  o'clock  when  Chivers  put  his  foot 
to  the  brake  at  the  top  of  the  hill  that  dipped  into  Little 
Bilstead. 

As  they  approached,  Sir  John  began  to  bob  about 
excitedly  in  his  seat.  Repose  of  manner  was  as  foreign 
to  his  nature  as  the  manifestation  of  sentiment. 

"Something  the  matter,"  he  murmured,  at  the  sight 
of  the  krtots  of  people  with  which  the  roadway  was 
dotted. 

"Perhaps  it's  a  populous  district,"  suggested  Mrs. 
Compton-Stacey  drily. 


320        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

He  grunted  something  unintelligible,  as  Chivers 
slowed  down. 

"Where's  the  post-office?"  he  enquired  of  a  tall, 
ramrod-like  figure  of  a  man  to  whom  Chivers  had 
taken  an  instinctive  dislike,  and  was  endeavouring  to 
force  into  the  hedge.  It  was  Colonel  Enderby  trying 
to  work  off  the  combined  effects  of  undigested  curry 
and  sudden  unpopularity. 

"Be  damned  to  you !"  he  shouted,  meaning  Chivers. 

"Be  damned  to  you,  too !"  yelled  Sir  John  over  the 
back  of  the  car,  not  to  be  out-done  in  the  amenities  of 
the  road.  "Here,  slow  up,  Chivers,"  he  called,  as  they 
approached  a  group  in  the  road. 

"Where's  the  post-office?"  he  demanded  again. 

Several  proceeded  to  answer  the  question  in  unison. 
Even  had  they  replied  separately,  it  is  doubtful  if  Sir 
John  would  have  been  any  the  wiser — the  Norfolk  dia- 
lect being  a  bar  to  intimate  communion  with  strangers. 

The  sudden  grind  of  brakes,  however,  together  with 
Chivers'  dexter  fore-finger,  which  performed  an  arc 
from  the  steering-wheel  to  a  spot  on  the  right-hand  side 
of  the  road  and  then  to  his  cap,  showed  that  he  had  dis- 
covered the  post-office  for  himself. 

At  the  sight  of  the  car  stopping  outside  his  establish- 
ment, Tom  Bassingthwaighte's  heart  gave  a  great 
bound.  With  a  shout  of  "Wanted,  mor,"  to  his  sister, 
he  left  old  Mrs.  Moggridge,  who  always  bought  a 
stamp  as  if  it  were  a  "Triangular  Cape,"  about  the 
genuineness  of  which  she  were  doubtful,  and  darted 
round  the  little  counter,  upset  a  pile  of  firewood  tied  in 
bundles,  jumped  a  box  containing  hearthstone,  and  was 
beside  the  car  a  moment  later. 


THE  UNMASKING  OF  SMITH  321 

"Are  you  Maister  Truelove?"  he  stammered 
hoarsely. 

"You  Bassingthwaighte?"  barked  Sir  John,  equally 
excited. 

The  postman  nodded.  Words  seemed  to  refuse  to 
come  at  his  brain's  bidding. 

"Jump  in  then,"  cried  Sir  John.  "No,  beside, 
the  chauffeur,"  he  added  hastily,  as  Tom  Bassing- 
thwaighte's  trembling  hand  fumbled  with  the  handle  of 
the  door. 

In  a  flash  he  had  dodged  round  the  bonnet  and  was 
beside  Chivers,  almost  before  the  chauffeur  had  time 
to  remove  the  suit-case  from  the  seat  to  the  floor. 

"Straight  on !"  almost  sobbed  Bassingthwaighte,  who 
seemed  instinctively  to  realise  what  was  required  of 
him.  "I'll  show  you,  bor,"  and  before  any  one  had 
properly  realised  what  was  happening,  Little  Bilstead 
saw  its  postman  whisked  away  in  a  high-power  touring- 
car,  apparently  with  the  postman's  full  acquiescence. 

"Well,  I'll  be  danged!"  muttered  Tom  Simmons,  "if 
that  ain't  a  rum  un." 

Once  clear  of  the  village,  Mrs.  Compton-Stacey  sig- 
nalled to  Chivers  to  stop. 

"What  the  devil  are  you  doing?"  demanded  Sir  John 
excitedly. 

"I  want  to  know  why  all  those  people  were  about,  for 
one  thing,"  she  replied  calmly,  "and  for  another  it  is 
as  well  that  we  should  know  what  has  happened.  Is 
anything  the  matter?"  she  enquired  of  Bassing- 
thwaighte. 

From  the  broad  Norfolk  of  the  postman,  after  he 
had  been  urged  by  Sir  John  not  to  go  "so  damn  quick," 


322        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

Mrs.  Compton-Stacey  and  her  brother  pieced  together 
sufficient  to  acquaint  them  with  the  fact  that  there  had 
been  a  fight,  and  that  Mist'  Alfred  had  come  off  victor. 
Furthermore  they  gathered  that  Mist'  Alfred  appeared 
to  be  a  sort  of  trinity,  the  other  component  parts  being 
"James  Smith,"  and  their  errant  nephew,  and  that  there 
had  been  "rare  goings  on  together." 

"And  you'll  gi'e  me  the  twenty-five  pound?"  Tom 
Bassingthwaighte  had  enquired  eagerly  in  conclusion. 

"Of  course,"  was  Sir  John's  curt  answer. 

"If  you  conduct  us  to  the  Mr.  James  Smith  we 
want,"  added  his  sister,  whereat  the  little  postman 
flopped  down  upon  the  seat  again,  as  the  car  jerked 
forward  to  the  realisation  of  what  he  hoped  would  be 
fortune. 

The  car  turned  into  the  drive  leading  up  to  the  vicar- 
age, and  the  vicar  himself  was  seen  walking  from  them, 
his  hands  clasped  behind  his  back,  apparently  deep  in 
thought. 

As  the  car  slid  up  beside  him,  he  started  violently,  as 
if  suddenly  snatched  back  to  life  from  another  world. 

"The  gentleman  be  lookin'  for  Mist'  Alfred,  sir," 
called  out  Tom  Bassingthwaighte,  almost  apoplectic 
with  excitement  now  that  the  reward  seemed  within  his 
grasp. 

"Smith,  you  fool,  not  Alfred,"  burst  out  Sir  John. 

"Tha's  all  right—"  began  the  postman.  "Ouch !" 
he  broke  off  with  a  yelp,  as  Chivers  dug  him  in  the  ribs 
with  a  vigorous  elbow. 

By  this  time  the  vicar,  hat  in  hand,  had  approached 
Mrs.  Compton-Stacey's  side  of  the  car. 

"We  are  looking  for  Mr.  James  Smith,"  she  said  in 
her  quiet,  level  tones,  "and — " 


THE  UNMASKING  OF  SMITH  323 

This  fellow  says  he  is  staying  with  you,"  broke  in 
Sir  John,  unable  to  tolerate  a  walking-on  part.  "I 
advertised  for  him.  He's  my  nephew,  Darrell  Hil- 
dreth.  Confounded  young  puppy !"  Sir  John  was  off 
like  a  back-firing  motor-lorry. 

The  vicar  gazed  at  him  in  bewilderment,  then  at 
Mrs.  Compton-Stacey,  and  back  again  to  Sir  John. 

"Smith,"  he  murmured,  as  if  exploring  the  inner  re- 
cesses of  his  memory.  "James  Smith,  I  seem  to  remem- 
ber the  name.  Ah !  yes.  A  wonderful  left." 

Sir  John  gazed  at  the  vicar  with  the  air  of  a  man 
who,  although  he  sympathises  with  the  insane,  dislikes 
intensely  to  encounter  them. 

"Is  he  here?"  enquired  Mrs.  Compton-Stacey  gently. 

"You  must  have  tea,"  said  the  vicar,  as  if  he  had  not 
heard  the  query.  "Hannah  would  wish  it.  I  don't 
think  we've  had  tea  yet."  He  paused  thoughtfully. 
"It  was  to  be  soda-scones,  I  believe,  or  was  that  yester- 
day? I  am  very  absent-minded,"  he  said,  turning  to 
Mrs.  Compton-Stacey  with  a  wraith  of  a  smile  that  had 
the  effect  of  dissipating  even  the  explosive  gases  that 
had  been  accumulating  in  Sir  John.  "If  the  soda-scones 
were  for  to-day,  then  I  am  sure  we  haven't  had  tea  yet. 
I  couldn't  have  forgotten  Hannah's  soda-scones  so 


soon." 


^  Having  thus  expressed  himself,  as  if  the  interroga- 
tion had  been  exclusively  concerned  with  tea  and  soda- 
scones,  the  vicar  turned  and,  his  hands  behind  him 
clasping  his  hat,  he  proceeded  to  walk  up  the  drive  in 
the  direction  of  the  vicarage.  Apparently  he  had  for- 
gotten all  about  the  car  and  its  occupants. 

Blowing  out  his  cheeks,  Sir  John  glared  after  the 
retreating  black-coated  figure.     There  was  something 


324        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

about  the  scholarly  dignity  of  the  old  man  that  seemed 
to  forbid  calling  after  him. 

"What  the  devil  are  we  to  do  now,  Charlotte?"  he 
cried  irritably. 

"Go  and  see  if  there  really  are  soda-scones  for  tea," 
was  the  placid  rejoinder,  as  Chivers,  always  the  man 
for  a  crisis,  started  the  car. 

"There  he  is !"  cried  Sir  John  suddenly,  as  they  came 
within  sight  of  the  vicarage.  Smith,  who  was  in  the 
act  of  raising  a  soda-scone  to  his  mouth,  seemed  sud- 
denly to  become  petrified,  the  scone  poised  in  mid-air, 
his  mouth  slightly  parted  to  receive  it. 

"Great  Gulliver !"  he  cried.    "My  uncle !" 

"You  young  scamp  !"  roared  Sir  John,  as  he  fumbled 
feverishly  with  the  door  of  the  car.  "What's  the  mean- 
ing of — "  He  stopped  as  if  shot.  He  had  just  caught 
sight  of  Miss  Lipscombe,  as  she  rose  into  prominence 
from  a  low  chair  on  the  further  side  of  the  table. 

Covering  the  few  yards  to  the  car  in  half-a-dozen 
strides,  Smith  had  Sir  John's  hand  firmly  gripped  in  his 
own.  There  was  a  genuine  light  of  gladness  in  his  eyes, 
as  he  gazed  upon  the  apoplectic  features  of  his  relative. 

"This  is  splendid  of  you,  sir,  and  you,  too,  Aunt 
Charlotte,"  he  cried,  looking  into  the  smiling  eyes  of 
his  aunt. 

"You — you — "  began  Sir  John;  but  his  voice  seemed 
suddenly  to  have  become  husky,  and  with  his  disengaged 
hand  he  tugged  a  handkerchief  from  his  pocket. 

The  vicar  stood  watching  the  scene,  a  vague,  be- 
mused look  in  his  eyes,  whilst  Tom  Bassingthwaighte, 
a  silly  grin  upon  his  face,  stood  up  in  the  car,  a  sort  of 
self-constituted  master-of-the-ceremonies. 


THE  UNMASKING  OF  SMITH  325 

"Here  he  be,  you  see.  Didn't  I  tell  you?"  he  cried. 
"There's  twenty-five  pound — Ouch!" 

Once  more  the  sphinx-like  Chivers  had  intervened, 
this  time  by  bringing  down  his  foot  upon  the  postman's 
corn-infested  toes,  as  if  they  had  been  a  brake-pedal 
and  danger  threatened. 

Slowly  and  in  little  exclamatory  sentences,  like  bursts 
from  a  machine-gun,  a  great  dramatic  moment  was 
smoothed  into  a  pleasant  social  gathering.  Mrs. 
Compton-Stacey  and  Sir  John  alighted  from  the  car, 
which  Chivers  started  in  the  direction  of  the  stables, 
holding  the  excited  postman  to  the  seat  with  his  disen- 
gaged hand. 

Mrs.  Compton-Stacey  and  Miss  Lipscombe  between 
them  gradually  got  the  situation  in  hand.  Sir  John 
was  sprayed  with  soothing  small-talk,  the  vicar  was 
given  a  soda-scone,  and  Smith  gazed  from  his  aunt  to 
his  uncle  and  back  again  in  a  way  that  told  Miss  Lip- 
scombe that  all  was  well,  or  at  least  would  be. 

Only  once  was  there  an  echo  of  the  drama  that  had 
so  recently  threatened  to  shatter  the  peace  of  the  vicar- 
age lawn — a  yell  from  the  direction  of  the  stables.  It 
was  Chivers  indicating  to  the  mercenary  Bassing- 
thwaighte  that  enough  for  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof, 
and  that  a  Hildreth  paid  at  his  own  time  in  his  own 
way. 

That  afternoon  the  Little  Bilstead  mail-bags  carried 
to  Messrs.  Truelove  and  Murchison  nine  communica- 
tions, each  telling  that  the  writers  knew  sufficient  about 
the  whereabouts  of  one  James  Smith  to  ensure  the  earn- 
ing of  the  twenty-five  pounds'  reward  offered. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

MR.    GADGETT  TELLS   THE   TRUTH 

I 

"XT  was  absolutely  spif,  sir,"  cried  Eric  ecstatically. 
"He  simply  hit  Marsh  all  over  the  field." 

He  was  describing  to  Sir  John  for  the  third 
time  how  his  nephew  had  won  for  Little  Bilstead  the 
annual  cricket  match  against  Upper  Saxton. 

Sir  John  had  slept  well,  Janet's  coffee  had  been 
"devilishly  good,"  as  he  had  told  Smith,  and  he  was 
feeling  intensely  eupeptic. 

Immediately  after  breakfast  Eric  had  arrived  across 
the  "birds'  breakfast-table,"  and  he  had  arrived  unre- 
buked.  His  frank  hero-worship  of  Smith,  he  persisted 
in  the  name,  coupled  with  the  fact  that  he  appeared  to 
find  nothing  in  Sir  John  of  which  to  be  afraid,  had 
rendered  them  "friends  from  the  kick-off,"  as  Eric  later 
expressed  it  to  Marjorie.  To  appear  afraid  of  Sir  John 
was  to  ensure  his  dislike. 

"Then,"  continued  Eric,  switching  on  to  the  previous 
day's  encounter,  "you  should  have  seen  old  Thirk 
go — "  He  stopped  suddenly.  A  moment  later  there 
was  a  flash  of  orange,  and  Eric  had  disappeared  behind 
the  holly-bush  into  which  Smith  had  threatened  to 
throw  Mr.  Bluggs. 

Sir  John  looked  about  him  in  bewilderment,  search- 
ing for  something  to  account  for  the  inexplicable  disap- 
pearance of  his  companion. 

Suddenly  his  gaze  became  fixed,  the  veins  in  his  fore- 
head began  to  swell,  and  the  tint  of  his  complexion 

328 


MR.  GADGETT  TELLS  THE  TRUTH          327 

deepened  to  puce.  Coming  up  the  vicarage  drive  was 
a  policeman,  accompanied  by  a  portly  man  in  a  brown- 
and-white  check  suit. 

At  the  sight  of  the  luxuriant  auburn  moustache 
adorning  the  newcomer's  upper  lip,  Sir  John's  eyes 
seemed  in  danger  of  starting  from  their  sockets.  He 
blew  out  his  cheeks  angrily. 

"What — what  the  devil  is  the  meaning  of  this, 
Peters?"  he  exploded. 

"I  am  taking  a  holiday,  Sir  John,"  was  the  self- 
possessed  reply,  as  Peters  removed  his  cap.  "I  didn't 
expect  to  see  you,  sir." 

"Taking  a  holiday!"  gasped  Sir  John.  "Didn't  ex- 
pect to  see  me!  Are — are  you  with  Mr.  Darrell?"  he 
demanded,  a  sudden  thought  striking  him. 

"No,  Sir  John,  I  am  alone." 

"Alone!" 

He  turned  his  fierce  gaze  upon  Postle,  who  had 
tipped  his  helmet  on  to  the  back  of  his  head,  and  was 
meditatively  rubbing  a  bristly  chin  with  the  pad  of  his 
right  thumb. 

"And  what  the  deuce  do  you  want?"  he  demanded. 

"This  gentleman  say  he  have  been  assaulted  while 
in  a  stoopin'  position,"  came  the  sing-song  reply,  "and 
I  fare  to  think  that  I — "  He  paused,  quelled  by  the 
irate  baronet's  eye. 

"What  the  devil  does  all  this  mean?"  he  demanded 
of  Peters. 

"I  think,  sir,  that  there  has  perhaps  been  a  little  mis- 
take," said  Peters  suavely.  "Some  days  back  I  was — " 

"Assaulted  when  in  a  stooping  position,"  broke  in 
Postle. 

"I  was  not  then  aware  that  the  young  gentleman  with 


328        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

the  catapult  was  a  friend  of  Mr.  Darrell's.  The  police- 
man has  just  told  me." 

Sir  John  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  his  tongue 
unable  to  keep  pace  with  the  tint  of  his  neck. 

"Look  here,  Peters,"  he  cried  with  sudden  inspira- 
tion, "if  it  hadn't  been  for  your  tomfoolery  about  grow- 
ing hair  on  your  face,  all  this  wouldn't  have  happened. 
I  don't  wonder  the  boy  shot  at  you.  Who  wouldn't?" 
he  added. 

"I'm  sorry,  Sir  John — "  began  Peters  with  dignity 
when,  like  a  tornado,  his  late  master  was  down  upon 
him. 

"Don't  be  sorry!"  he  snorted.  "Get  shaved!  Re- 
move that  disgusting  mess  from  your  upper  lip." 

"When  I  found  that  you  objected  to  my  hirsute — " 

"Objected  to  your  what?" 

"My  moustache,  Sir  John,  I  resigned,"  said  Peters 
with  dignity. 

"And  what  is  the  result?  Mr.  Darrell  lost,  me  run- 
ning wild-goose  chases  all  over  the  country,  Mr.  Darrell 
nearly  killed  by  some  low  ruffian — " 

"I  understand,  Sir  John,"  said  Peters,  reassuming 
his  cap  and  endeavouring  to  adjust  it  to  what  he  con- 
ceived to  be  the  correct  angle,  "that  it  was  the,  er — 
ruffian  who  was  hurt." 

Sir  John  opened  his  mouth  to  retort  and  then,  as  if 
thinking  better  of  it,  turned  suddenly  upon  Postle,  who 
had  been  listening  intently — with  his  mouth. 

"What  the  devil  are  you  waiting  for?"  he  demanded. 

"This  gentleman  say  he  have  been  assaulted,  he 
say—" 

"He's  not  a  gentleman,  he's  my  butler,"  was  the 
retort,  "and  be  damned  to  you !"  he  added. 


MR.  GADGETT  TELLS  THE  TRUTH          329 

Postle  turned  to  Peters.  Drama  was  none  too  com- 
mon in  Little  Bilstead,  and  he  wanted  to  see  this  one 
out. 

"You — "  he  began,  when  Peters  interrupted  him  with 
a  lordly  wave  of  his  hand,  with  which  he  was  accus- 
tomed to  dismiss  hawkers  and  other  itinerants. 

"I've  already  told  you  that  the  charge  is  withdrawn," 
he  said,  "constable,"  he  added,  as  a  sop  to  the  Cerberus 
of  Postle's  vanity. 

Realising  that  as  far  as  he  was  concerned,  the  drama 
was  ended,  Postle  turned  on  a  reluctant  heel,  casting  a 
longing  look  over  his  shoulder  as  he  reached  the  point 
when  another  step  would  blot  out  what  he  had  hoped 
would  be  the  most  dramatic  scene  of  his  career. 

As  Postle's  heavy-footed  form  disappeared  from 
view,  Eric's  red  head  reappeared  round  the  corner  of 
the  harness-room. 

"I  say,  I'm  sorry  if  I  hurt  you,"  he  said  to  Peters, 
still  keeping  at  what  he  regarded  as  a  tactful  distance. 
"You  know,  sir,"  he  added,  turning  to  Sir  John,  "I 
pinked  this  gentleman — " 

"Gentleman !"  repeated  Sir  John  irritably,  "he's  my 
butler." 

"I  was  your  butler,  Sir  John,"  said  Peters,  "un- 
til I—" 

"Turned  yourself  into  a  caricature,"  cried  Sir  John, 
"after  fifteen  years'  service,"  he  added  with  self-pity. 

"I  think  it's  topping,"  said  Eric,  restraining  a  grin 
with  difficulty,  as  he  gazed  at  Peters'  auburn  wonder 
with  great  intentness.  "Puts  me  in  mind  of  old  Kitch," 
he  added. 

"There  !"  cried  Sir  John.  "You  see?"  and  there  was 
triumph  in  his  voice. 


SSO        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

"I  think,  Sir  John,  with  your  permission,  I  will  with- 
draw," said  Peters  with  great  dignity. 

"Withdraw  and  be  dam — "  Sir  John  finished  the 
sentence  with  a  cough.  He  had  suddenly  realised  Eric's 
youth. 

"Very  good,  sir,"  said  Peters,  bowing  with  the  im- 
perturbability of  the  well-trained  servant  and,  turning, 
he  walked  away  with  the  stiffness  of  deportment  he 
usually  assumed  when  announcing,  UA  person  to  see 
you,  Sir  John!" 

"Where's  that  young  scamp?"  demanded  Sir  John, 
"and  the  others?"  he  added,  the  tint  of  his  neck  rapidly 
approaching  normal. 

In  the  pair  of  grey-green  eyes  Eric  turned  upon  him 
there  was  mystery,  the  "Hussssssh !"  of  the  villain  of 
melodrama. 

"He's  gone  to  see  Marjie,  I  think,"  he  announced 
mysteriously. 

"Marjie!"  cried  Sir  John.     "Who's  he?" 

"She's  my  sister,  sir,"  said  Eric,  a  look  on  his  face 
that  seemed  to  require  only  a  surplice.  "You  know 
we  saw  her  just  now  when  we  came  back  from  the 
church,  on  her  horse,  sir,"  he  added  anxiously.  He  did 
not  want  that  there  should  be  any  mistake,  as  they  had 
also  encountered  Miss  Marshall. 

"She's  frightfully  dece  in  other  ways,  too,"  an- 
nounced Eric. 

"Frightfully  what?" 

"Decent,  sir,"  said  Eric,  with  a  self-conscious  grin. 
"I'm  sorry — "  He  paused.  Sir  John  had  blown 
through  his  lips,  as  if  "dece"  had  been  a  piece  of  thistle- 
down to  be  sent  to  the  four  winds  of  heaven. 

"Of  course  it's  frightfully  sud — sudden,  I  mean," 


MR.  GADGETT  TELLS  THE  TRUTH          331 

Eric  added  quickly,  as  he  saw  Sir  John's  lips  forming 
an  enquiry;  "but  I  saw  it  from  the  first." 

"Saw  what  from  the  first?"  Sir  John  stopped  dead, 
as  if  he  felt  he  had  a  better  chance  of  understanding 
Eric's  mysterious  talk  if  in  a  stationary  position. 

"That  they  were  in  love  and  all  that  silly  rot,"  he 
paused  for  the  fraction  of  a  second;  but  remembering 
that  his  cricket  was  at  stake,  added,  "and  would 
marry."  Then  he  held  his  breath  and  waited. 

"Marry!" 

Eric  had  not  underestimated  the  power  of  the  ex- 
plosion. For  a  moment  Sir  John  seemed  in  danger  of 
apoplexy.  He  blinked  like  a  cinematograph  film, 
glanced  about  him  in  a  dazed  sort  of  manner,  blew  out 
his  cheeks  and  finally  fixed  his  eyes  on  Eric. 

"But  he  doesn't  want  to  marry,"  he  cried.  "That's 
why  he — "  He  stopped  suddenly,  realising  that  Eric 
was  but  a  child. 

"Well,  he's  all  over  Marjie,"  was  the  rejoinder. 
Eric  had  decided  that  it  was  no  time  for  half-measures. 
"Everybody  wants  to  marry  Marjie,"  he  added,  with 
the  inspiration  of  the  house-agent  who  assures  a  client 
that  a  number  of  people  are  after  "these  desirable 
premises." 

Sir  John  recalled  the  vision  of  a  girl  careering  over 
the  countryside  on  "a  splendid  animal,"  as  he  had  re- 
marked at  the  time.  If  there  was  one  thing  more  than 
another  he  loved,  it  was  a  good  piece  of  horse-flesh. 
The  only  complaint  he  had  against  Vera  Truscombe 
was  that  she  rode  a  horse  as  if  it  were  "a  damned 
bicycle." 

Eric's  announcement  had  sobered  him  considerably. 
The  insubordination  of  Peters  in  growing  a  moustache, 


332        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

the  fact  that  his  man  had  packed  him  only  two  collars, 
and  the  memory  of  Tom  Bassingthwaighte  having 
dunned  him  before  breakfast  for  the  twenty-five 
pounds;  all  were  absorbed  in  this  startling  piece  of  in- 
formation. 

If  he  interfered  further  in  his  nephew's  matrimonial 
affairs,  he  would  in  all  probability  disappear  again, 
"the  headstrong  young  puppy,"  and  Sir  John  had 
missed  him  more  than  he  cared  to  admit,  even  to  him- 
self. 

"The  confounded  sly  young  puppy!"  he  muttered 
under  his  breath.  "He  said  it  was  the  railway  strike"; 
but  there  was  no  anger  in  his  tone. 

Eric  expanded  his  lungs  to  their  normal  extent.  An- 
other obstacle  to  his  mastery  of  fast-bowling  had  been 
removed. 

II 

After  breakfast  that  morning,  Smith  had  gone  down 
to  the  village  to  enquire  after  Thirkettle  and,  if  pos- 
sible, to  see  him.  From  John  Nudd,  however,  he 
learned  that  his  late  antagonist  had  left  Little  Bilstead 
the  previous  night. 

Before  doing  so,  however,  he  seemed  to  have  ex- 
pressed himself  with  some  heat  upon  the  subject  of  the 
trick  that  had  been  played  him.  He  appeared  to  re- 
gard the  whole  affair  as  "a  put-up  job,"  and  that  the 
services  of  a  prize-fighter,  bearing  a  strong  resemblance 
to  Alfred  Warren  had  been  secured;  "but  I  'oan't  for- 
get it,  together,"  he  had  assured  them  malevolently. 

He  had  threatened  to  set  about  the  whole  village, 
hinted  at  wrecking  the  public-bar  of  The  Pigeons,  and 
even  gone  to  the  extent  of  telling  Postle  that  he  wasn't 


MR.  GADGETT  TELLS  THE  TRUTH          333 

going  to  stand  any  of  his  "squit,"  whereat  Postle  had 
withdrawn  to  his  cottage,  and  was  seen  later  with  his 
boots  in  a  high  state  of  polish. 

Such  of  the  men  of  Little  Bilstead  as  Smith  en- 
countered that  morning  showed  a  marked  change  in 
their  demeanour,  particularly  those  who,  like  Jack 
Bean,  had  been  loudest  in  their  denunciations  of  Mist' 
Alfred.  They  realised  that  a  man  who  could  give  Bob 
Thirkettle  "cosh"  was  one  to  be  treated  with  respect. 

The  women  seemed  to  have  gone  over  to  him  to  a 
petticoat,  judging  from  the  nods  and  smiles  he  en- 
countered, whilst  the  children  gazed  up  at  him  in  awe 
and  large-eyed  wonder. 

Social  Little  Bilstead  also  was  moving,  and  Smith 
escaped  Colonel  Enderby  by  ten  seconds,  and  Mrs. 
Spelman  by  barely  fifteen.  The  object  of  the  one  was 
"to  tender  apologies,"  as  he  afterwards  expressed  it  to 
Miss  Jell,  and  of  the  other  to  invite  the  only  lion  Little 
Bilstead  had  ever  known  to  take  tea  with  her  that  after- 
noon. 

Unaware  of  his  providential  escape,  Smith  strolled 
back  to  the  vicarage,  his  thoughts  busy  with  the  hap- 
penings of  the  past  twenty-four  hours. 

What  was  Marjorie  doing?  What  was  she  think- 
ing? He  was  determined  to  see  her  again.  When  Sir 
John  had  enquired  of  him  the  previous  evening  what 
were  his  plans,  he  had  avoided  giving  a  definite  answer. 
He  had  no  plans — until  he  knew.  Knew  what? 

As  he  turned  into  the  vicarage  drive,  he  became  con- 
scious of  a  little  group  standing  just  within  the  gate. 

"Ah !  here  he  is,"  he  heard  from  beneath  Miss  Lip- 
scombe's  faded  blue  sunbonnet.  With  her  were  his 
aunt  and  Peters. 


334        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

"This  seems  to  be  a  place  of  happy  rencontres," 
smiled  Mrs.  Compton-Stacey,  as  he  joined  them.  She 
was  glad  to  see  Peters  again.  She  had  missed  him 
almost  as  much  as  her  brother  had. 

"Good  morning,  sir,"  said  Peters,  removing  his  cap 
once  more.  He  disliked  removing  his  cap  when  there 
was  no  looking-glass  handy,  and  that  was  the  third 
time  he  had  been  called  upon  to  do  it  that  morning.  He 
had  discovered  that  the  effectiveness  of  a  cap  was  in 
direct  ratio  to  the  angle  at  which  it  is  worn. 

"Well,  what's  the  news?"  enquired  Smith. 

Peters  hesitated. 

"I  got  Peters  to  make  some  enquiries  about  Alfred 
Warren,"  he  explained  to  Miss  Lipscombe.  "You  re- 
member a  man  named  Gadgett  calling?" 

She  nodded,  and  turned  to  Peters,  an  eager  look  in 
her  eyes. 

"Mr.  Warren  was  killed  at  Neuve  Chapelle,"  said 
Peters. 

With  a  quick  indrawing  of  breath,  Miss  Lipscombe's 
hand  went  up  to  her  left  side.  In  swift  understanding, 
Mrs.  Compton-Stacey  linked  her  arm  through  that  of 
the  older  woman. 

"Go  on,"  said  Miss  Lipscombe  almost  fiercely.  "I'm 
not  going  to  faint,  although  I  am  a  fool." 

"Tell  us  what  happened,  Peters,"  said  Smith,  his 
eyes  upon  Miss  Lipscombe's  face,  which  had  gone  very 
white. 

"I  saw  Mr.  Gadgett,  sir,"  Peters  continued,  "as  you 
instructed,  and  he  told  me  that  Mr.  Warren  enlisted  in 
August,  1914,  under  the  name  of  Smith." 

"Smith!" 

"Yes,  sir,  James  Smith." 


MR.  GADGETT  TELLS  THE  TRUTH          335 

"Great  Gulliver!"  murmured  Smith  under  his 
breath. 

"What  a  strange  coincidence,"  murmured  Mrs. 
Compton-Stacey,  who  was  clasping  Miss  Lipscombe's 
right  hand  in  both  her  own. 

"He  was  defending  a  wounded  officer  and — " 

With  a  choking  sob  Miss  Lipscombe  turned  and, 
leaning  heavily  on  Mrs.  Compton-Stacey's  arm,  walked 
slowly  up  the  drive. 

"Go  on,  Peters,"  said  Smith,  his  eyes  following  the 
retreating  figures  of  the  two  women. 

And  Peters  proceeded  to  tell  how,  by  what  he  re- 
ferred to  as  "diplomacy,"  he  had  extracted  from  Mr. 
Gadgett  the  news  of  Alfred  Warren's  death,  and  a 
promise  to  furnish  Lady  Warren's  solicitors  with  all 
the  information  he  possessed. 

"But  how  did  you  manage  it?"  cried  Smith,  puzzled 
at  what  appeared  to  be  the  entire  capitulation  of  the 
crafty  Mr.  Gadgett. 

Peters  hesitated;  but  only  for  the  fraction  of  a 
second. 

"I'm  afraid,  I  had  to — to  depend  on  diplomacy,  sir." 

"Not  violence?" 

"No,  sir,"  and  there  was  regret  in  Peters'  voice, 
"there  were  clerks  in  the  outer  office,  and  Mr.  Gadgett 
was  near  the  bell." 

"And  what  form  did  your  diplomacy  take?" 

"I  happened  to  mention,  sir,  that  there  was  to  be  a 
dinner  of  the  non-commissioned  officers  of  the  battalion 
next  week,  and  that  his  address — "  He  paused. 

"Peters,"  said  Smith  gravely,  "do  you  realise  that 
was  pure  Prussianism,  the  very  thing  we  fought 
against?" 


336        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

"It  was  the  only  way,  sir." 

Having  arranged  with  Peters  to  send  up  to  the  vicar- 
age the  clothes  he  had  brought,  and  remain  on  at  The 
Pigeons  until  he  received  further  orders,  Smith  dis- 
missed him. 

As  he  entered  the  vicarage,  Miss  Lipscombe  came 
to  the  door  of  the  drawing-room  and  beckoned  to  him. 
There  was  a  strange  softness  in  her  eyes  as  he  closed 
the  door  and  turned  to  her. 

"Mr.  Hildreth,"  she  said  huskily,  as  she  extended  a 
none  too  steady  hand  to  him,  "I  want  to  thank  you  for 
what  you  have  done." 

He  took  the  hand  extended  to  him.  He  could  not 
trust  his  voice. 

"I  think,"  she  continued  a  moment  later,  "I  think  I 
see  the  hand  of  God  in  this,"  and  there  were  tears  in 
her  eyes. 

"He  made  good,"  was  all  Smith  could  think  of  to 
say. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

ERIC    PRONOUNCES   IT   SPIF 

"\\  TELL,  Willis,  you  see  you  were  wrong  and  I 

Y  V     was  right." 

Willis  had  just  thrown  open  the  hall- 
door  of  The  Grange  with  that  smile  he  seemed  to  keep 
specially  for  Smith. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Willis,  as  he  stood  aside  to  allow 
Smith  to  enter.  "It's  all  very  wonderful,  sir.  You'll 
be  going  away  now,  I  suppose,  Mr.  Al — sir,"  he  cor- 
rected himself.  Smith  noted  the  mournful  inflection  of 
his  voice. 

"Yes,  Willis,  I'm  sorry  to  say.  Is  Miss  Mar- 
jorie  in?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  and  the  old  man's  voice  was  noticeably 
husky.  "She's  in  the  morning-room,  sir." 

"I  shall  always  regard  you  as  my  good  Samaritan," 
said  Smith,  smiling  in  spite  of  himself  at  the  recollection 
of  their  first  meeting. 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Willis,  fumbling  at  the  rails 
of  his  coat,  a  moment  later  producing  a  large  coloured 
handkerchief,  with  which  he  proceeded  to  blow  his  nose 
and  surreptitiously  mop  his  eyes. 

"It'll  be  like  losing  Mr.  Alfred  all  over  again,  sir," 
he  mumbled  through  the  folds  of  the  handkerchief, 
"and,  and — "  He  trailed  off  into  something  between  a 
sniff  and  a  sob. 

"Cheer  up,  Willis,"  said  Smith,  touched  by  the  old 

337 


338        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

man's  obvious  regret  that  he  was  going.  "It's  not  so 
bad  as  all  that." 

"It — it's  terrible  for  us,  sir,"  was  the  melancholy 
response,  as  he  continued  to  mop  his  eyes.  "Mrs. 
Higgs  has  had  two  goes  of  hysterics,  and  I'm  sure 
she'll  have  another  before  the  day's  out." 

"I'm  dreadfully  sorry,"  said  Smith,  conscious  of  the 
feebleness  of  the  remark. 

"Then  there's  Mrs.  Death,  sir,"  Willis  continued,  as 
if  determined  to  squeeze  every  drop  of  misery  from  the 
catastrophe.  "She  had  visions  last  night,  sir,  and  she 
says  she  feels  another  coming  on,  and  she  can't  cook 
when  she  has  visions,  sir,  and — "  He  broke  off  huskily. 

"I'm  afraid  my  coming  has  upset  everybody." 

"It  isn't  your  coming,  sir,  it's  your  going.  It — it — " 
Again  his  voice  failed  him. 

Deeply  touched  though  he  was  by  the  old  man's  grief, 
Smith  found  himself  at  a  loss  how  to  comfort  him. 

"If — if  you  were  only  coming  back  again,  sir,  if  just 
for  an  hour,  it  would  be  something  to  look  forward  to. 
I'm  sure  Mrs.  Death  will  be  ill  if. she  has  another 
vision,  sir.  She  says  it  reminds  her  of  when  her  baby 
had  pneumonia.  It's  terrible,  sir."  The  tears  were 
now  streaming  down  his  cheeks,  without  any  attempt  on 
his  part  to  arrest  their  flow. 

"Now,  Willis,  you  mustn't  give  way,"  said  Smith 
soothingly,  as  if  speaking  to  a  child.  "Perhaps  Mr. 
Alfred  will  come  back  and — " 

"He  won't,  sir,"  sobbed  Willis.  "I  seem  to  know 
now  that  he's  dead,  and  if  he  did,  Bob  Thirkettle  would 
kill  him,  he  isn't  as  strong  as  you  are,  sir." 

"What  makes  you  think  Mr.  Alfred  is  dead?"  en- 
quired Smith  curiously. 


ERIC  PRONOUNCES  IT  SPIF  339 

"We  feel  it,  sir,  me  and  Mrs.  Death,  sir,"  he 
quavered,  "and  I  don't  know  who's  to  prepare  Miss 
Marjorie's  luncheon.  We  can't  give  her  sardines  again, 
she  had  them  for  breakfast." 

Smith  turned  aside  to  hide  a  smile. 
"Now,  Willis,  cheer  up,  and  tell  Mrs.  Higgs  that  I 
will  come  back  soon,  just  to  see  my  good  friends  at 
The  Grange,  and  we'll  have  tea  in  her  pretty  little  sit- 
ting-room and — " 

"You  will,  sir?  You  mean  it?"  cried  Willis,  sun- 
light shining  through  his  tears.  In  his  eagerness  he 
had  clutched  Smith  by  the  coat-sleeve. 

"I  promise,"  said  Smith  gravely,  more  touched  by 
the  old  man's  gratitude  than  he  cared  to  confess,  even 
to  himself.  "Now  I'll  go  and  find  Miss  Marjorie. 
No,  don't  come,"  he  added,  as  Willis  made  a  movement 
to  lead  the  way  to  the  morning-room.  "You  go  and 
tell  Mrs.  Higgs  and  Mrs.  Death." 

"I  hope  it  won't  give  Mrs.  Higgs  hysterics  again," 
he  murmured,  shaking  his  head  dubiously.  "She  has 
them  very  easy,  sir." 

Leaving  Willis  to  his  lugubrious  forebodings,  Smith 
crossed  the  hall  to  the  morning-room.  Opening  the 
door  softly,  he  entered. 

"May  I  come  in?"  he  enquired. 
Marjorie,  who  was  standing  looking  out  from  the 
French-windows,  turned  with  a  start.  She  felt  herself 
flushing;  for  at  that  very  moment  she  was  wondering 
if  he  had  already  left  Little  Bilstead,  or  if  he  would  go 
without  calling. 

From  Eric  she  had  received  a  full,  true,  and  particu- 
lar account  of  the  dramrtic  arrival  of  Sir  John  Hil- 
dreth  and  his  sister,  with  "Old  Bass." 


340        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

"I've  come  to  say  good-bye,"  continued  Smith. 

"Mr.  Hildreth,"  she  said  gravely,  as  she  extended 
her  hand,  "how  does  one  apologise  when  one  is  almost 
too  humiliated  to  think  of — of — " 

"One  doesn't,"  he  smiled. 

"Please  don't  be  magnanimous,"  she  begged,  as  she 
dropped  into  a  chair,  motioning  him  to  another.  "I 
thought  I  shouldn't  have  the  courage  to  meet  you 
again,"  she  said. 

"And  you  have?" 

"Yes;  but—"     She  paused. 

"I  gave  you  no  option,"  he  suggested. 

"I  could  scarcely  run  away,  could  I?"  she  inter- 
rogated. 

"You  might  have  tried,"  he  suggested  with  a  smile, 
"although  I  warn  you  I  should  have  given  chase." 

"Please  don't,"  she  said,  gazing  at  the  point  of  a 
dainty  bronze  shoe  with  the  air  of  one  who  finds  it 
difficult  to  explain.  "I — I'm  very  much  ashamed  of 
myself.  I  ought  to  have  known." 

"Why?" 

"Oh !  there  were  a  lot  of  things."  Her  voice  was 
now  quite  friendly,  he  decided.  It  seemed  to  have  lost 
that  quality  of  well-bred  indifference  that  had  always 
so  piqued  him  in  the  past.  "You  must  think  me  a  hor- 
rible prig."  She  looked  up  suddenly,  and  gazed  straight 
into  his  eyes. 

"Shall  we  agree  to  let  bygones  be  bygones,"  he  sug- 
gested, "and  begin  afresh?" 

She  shook  her  head  with  a  slow  but  decided  air. 

"That  is  impossible,  I'm  afraid,"  she  said. 

"Why  impossible?" 

"When  I  was  quite  a  tiny  thing — "  there  was  the 


ERIC  PRONOUNCES  IT  SPIF  341 

ghost  of  a  smile  as  her  eyes  remained  fixed  upon  her 
shoe-tip,  "I  remember  if  ever  I  had  been  naughty,  I 
would  never  allow  myself  to  be  forgiven  until  I  had 
done — "  She  paused. 

"Penance?"  he  suggested. 

She  nodded. 

"Well,  why  not  do  penance  now?"  he  suggested 
eagerly. 

Again  she  shook  her  head,  with  the  same  air  of  de- 
cision. 

"It  had  to  be  something  that  satisfied  me,  something 
I  hated  doing  and  which  hurt." 

"But  surely  if  I  say  it  doesn't  matter — "  he  began, 
when  she  interrupted  him. 

"That  wouldn't  make  any  difference,"  she  insisted. 
"I  suppose  it's  conscience,  and  I  require  absolution." 

"But  I  give  it  full  measure  and  brimming  over,"  he 
said  quickly.  "Surely  that  ends  it." 

"None  but  a  priest  can  grant  absolution,"  she  said 
gravely. 

Her  eyes  reproached  him. 

"Let's  send  for  one,"  he  smiled. 

"I  know  I  must  seem  ridiculous,"  she  said,  a  slight 
flush  colouring  her  cheeks,  which  seemed  to  him  un- 
usually pale;  "but  I  can't  explain." 

"Will  you  answer  me  one  question  quite  frankly  and 
honestly?"  he  asked,  watching  her  delicately  tapered 
fingers  as  they  trifled  with  the  jade  ornament  hung  by  a 
black  ribbon  from  her  neck. 

She  hesitated  for  a  moment,  then  looked  straight  into 
his  eyes. 

"Yes,  I  will." 

"If  it  hadn't  been  for — for  what  you  thought,  do 


342        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

you  think  we  should  have  been  friends?"  He  was  con- 
scious that  his  heart  was  pumping  with  a  quite  unneces- 
sary amount  of  vigour. 

"Yes,  I  think  we  should,"  her  eyes  fell  again,  and 
her  flush  deepened.  "Nero  liked  you,  and  Eric,"  she 
continued  with  an  obvious  effort,  "and  I  always  like  the 
people  they  like." 

"After  all,  you  had  to  go  upon  the  evidence  you 
possessed,"  he  suggested,  "and  everybody  recognised 
me  as  Alfred  Warren." 

"But  I  should  have  known."  There  was  in  her  tone 
the  persistence  of  a  child  who  refuses  to  be  comforted. 

There  was  a  prolonged  silence.  Smith  was  cudgelling 
his  brains  for  something  that  would  help  her  to  modify 
the  harsh  judgment  into  which  she  had  entered  against 
herself. 

"I  think  I  owe  you  an  explanation  also,"  he  said  at 
length,  noting  her  distress.  "I  think  it  is  I  who  am 
really  to  blame.  If  I  hadn't  descended  upon  you  all 
in  the  way  I  did,  there  would  have  been  no  misunder- 
standing." 

She  shook  her  head  for  the  third  time. 

"It  all  came  about  in  a  very  curious  way,"  he  con- 
tinued. "My  uncle,  who  is  a  splendid  old  fellow  but  a 
bit  volcanic,  and  I  had  a  difference  of  opinion  upon 
the  subject  of  noses." 

He  noticed  the  suggestion  of  a  furrow  between  her 
brows,  as  she  continued  to  gaze  at  the  point  of  her  shoe. 

"He  had  selected  a  wife  for  me,  and  somehow  we 
didn't  seem  to  see  quite  eye  to  eye,  or  perhaps  I  should 
say  nez  a  nez — you  see  it  crinkled  when  she  laughed." 

She  looked  up  suddenly,  a  startled  expression  in  her 
eyes,  then,  at  the  quizzical  expression  on  his  face,  she 
smiled  involuntarily. 


ERIC  PRONOUNCES  IT  SPIF  343 

"My  uncle  and  I  had  an  argument,  which  developed 
into  something  more  serious.  He  practically  ordered 
me  to  marry  her.  I  expostulated  that  I  could  never 
live  down  those  crinkles.  I'm  afraid  I  behaved  rather 
badly  by  treating  the  whole  matter  with  unnecessary 
flippancy.  You  see,  her  estates  bordered  on  ours,  and 
my  uncle  was  anxious  to  link  them  together." 

He  paused  for  a  second;  but  at  a  little  nod  from  her 
he  continued. 

"The  upshot  of  it  was  that  he  cut  me  off  with  a 
shilling,  and  told  me  to  go  to  the  devil,  so — " 

"You  came  to  Little  Bilstead,"  she  interrupted  de- 
murely, without  raising  her  eyes. 

At  that  moment,  he  decided,  she  was  prettier  than 
he  had  ever  remembered  to  have  seen  her. 

"Perhaps  it  would  be  more  accurate  to  say  that  fate 
and  the  railway-strike  landed  me  here,"  he  continued, 
"and—" 

"But  was  it  necessary  to  change  your  name?"  she 
queried,  leaning  forward  slightly. 

"My  uncle  rather  rubbed  it  in  about  going  to  the 
dogs  and  dragging  the  family  name  with  me,  and  I'm 
afraid  I  must  have  got  a  little  short-tempered.  I  told 
him  that  I  would  never  use  the  name  of  Hildreth  again 
until  I  had  his  permission,  and  the  next  morning  in  the 
bath  I  christened  myself  James  Smith.  You  see  I  en- 
listed under  that  name.  Private  Darrell  Hildreth 
didn't  seem  to  sound  quite  right  somehow,  and  I  wanted 
to  stay  in  the  ranks.  And  that's  all  there  is  to  tell,"  he 
concluded. 

For  nearly  a  minute  there  was  silence.  Her  gaze 
was  concentrated  upon  the  point  of  her  shoe. 

"I  came  to  say  good-bye,"  he  said,  finding  the  silence 
embarrassing. 


344        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

She  continued  to  play  with  the  jade  ornament  she  had 
worn  the  first  time  he  saw  her. 

"You  must  be  glad."    She  did  not  look  up. 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  said.  "I  have  rather  enjoyed  it  all." 

"And,  and — "  she  began,  then  paused. 

"I  was  sorry  about  yesterday,"  he  said  gravely,  in- 
terpreting her  thoughts;  "but  it  was  unavoidable.  I 
ran  down  to  see  him  this  morning,"  he  added,  "but  he 
had  gone.  He  realises  that  I  am  not  Alfred  Warren." 

Again  there  was  a  period  of  silence.  There  seemed 
nothing  more  to  be  said.  She  refused  to  be  forgiven, 
and  it  now  remained  for  him  only  to  make  his  adieux, 
return  to  the  vicarage  and  prepare  for  the  journey  west. 

Suddenly  he  had  an  inspiration. 

"Will  you  take  me  to  say  good-bye  to  Nero?"  he 
asked. 

She  rose  immediately,  then  paused  half-way  towards 
the  window. 

"Only  four  lumps  at  the  outside,"  she  warned. 

"But  this  is  a  parting,"  he  pleaded.  "We  may  never 
meet  again  and,  because  you  won't  be  friends,  you 
surely  won't  come  between  Nero  and  me." 

Without  a  word  she  passed  out  through  the  French 
windows,  and  across  the  lawn  in  the  direction  of  the 
stables.  From  behind  a  clump  of  holly,  Eric  watched 
the  scene,  speculating  as  to  his  chances  of  bowling- 
practice. 

At  the  sight  of  Marjorie  and  his  Sugar  Man  ap- 
proaching, Nero  became  almost  frantic  with  excite- 
ment. He  blew  through  his  lips  in  an  ecstasy  of  antici- 
pation, Marjorie  called  it  "purring,"  stretching  his 
shapely  neck  over  the  half-door  of  his  loose-box  to  its 
utmost  limit. 


ERIC  PRONOUNCES  IT  SPIF  345 

The  sight  of  Smith  thrusting  his  hand  into  his  pocket 
caused  Nero  to  add  to  the  "purr"  a  soft  whinny  of 
joy.  His  Sugar  Man  had  not  only  come  to  see  him; 
but  had  brought  with  him  those  white  cubes  of  joy, 
without  which  life  would  lose  much  of  its  attractiveness. 

"Nero,  you  must  be  good,"  admonished  Marjorie,  as 
she  fondled  his  silky  neck,  whilst  Smith  extended  a  hand 
on  which  lay  four  of  the  largest  lumps  of  sugar  he  had 
been  able  to  steal  from  Janet's  store  at  the  vicarage. 

As  he  munched  the  crisp  morsels,  there  was  an  ex- 
pression in  Nero's  eyes  which  told  of  perfect  content. 
Was  he  not  in  the  presence  of  his  beloved  mistress,  with 
whom  he  had  such  glorious  gallops,  stopping  at  nothing 
and  caring  for  nobody?  Was  there  not  with  her  his 
Sugar  Man,  in  whose  pockets  the  white  cubes  grew  as 
he  had  never  known  them  to  grow  elsewhere? 

As  the  last  morsel  disappeared,  Nero  stretched  out 
a  peremptory  head  towards  Smith.  He  was  ready  for 
more. 

"Don't  you  think  it's  a  little  unfair  to  Nero?"  Smith 
was  saying. 

"Unfair  to  Nero  I"  she  repeated,  not  following  the 
line  of  his  thoughts. 

"Not  to  allow  yourself  to  be  forgiven,"  he  smiled. 
"I  mustn't  give  you  any  more,  old  fellow,"  he  said,  as 
Nero  manifested  impatience  at  the  neglect  of  so  obvious 
a  hint. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  say  I  wouldn't  be  forgiven,"  she 
said,  conscious  that  once  more  she  was  colouring  be- 
neath his  steady  gaze.  "What  I  meant  was,  I  cannot 
forgive  myself." 

"In  the  meantime  Nero  must  go  without  sugar,"  he 
suggested. 


346        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

"I  don't  see — Nerol"  she  broke  off.  "You  wicked 
person." 

Impatient  at  the  lack  of  response  to  his  clearly  ex- 
pressed wishes  for  more  sugar,  Nero  had  caught 
Smith's  coat-sleeve  between  his  teeth,  and  was  shaking 
it  as  a  dog  shakes  a  rat. 

At  the  smart  pat  on  the  side  of  his  head  which  Mar- 
jorie  administered,  he  dropped  the  coat-sleeve  and 
turned  upon  her  a  pair  of  reproachful  eyes — he  hated 
being  corrected  at  any  time;  but  before  his  Sugar  Man ! 

"You  shouldn't  be  naughty,"  she  said,  then,  drawing 
his  head  towards  her  and  rubbing  her  face  against  it, 
she  added,  "You  must  behave,  Nero,  dear." 

For  a  second  he  allowed  himself  to  be  caressed. 
Suddenly  he  started  from  the  gently  restraining  hand' 
of  his  mistress.  There,  piled  up  in  the  Sugar  Man's 
hand  was  more  white  bliss  than  he  ever  remembered  to 
have  seen  before. 

He  craned  forward;  but  the  tempting  pile  was  just 
out  of  reach.  The  Sugar  Man  was  looking  at  his 
mistress.  Why  didn't  he  come  nearer?  The  top  of  the 
door  hurt;  still,  he  must  get  that  snowy  mound. 

Suddenly  the  mound  came  within  his  reach.  The  in- 
terrogation in  the  Sugar  Man's  eyes,  which  Nero  had 
not  observed,  had  been  answered  with  a  little  nod,  and 
he  was  crunching  more  sugar  at  once  than  he  had  ever 
crunched  before  in  his  life. 

"Can't  you  see  Nero  asking  you  what  has  become  of 
me?"  Smith  enquired,  as  he  watched  the  obvious  enjoy- 
ment with  which  his  largesse  was  being  eaten. 

"Nero  cannot  always  have  his  own  way,"  she  re- 
torted, with  a  lightness  she  was  not  feeling. 

"Think  of  Willis  unhappy  and  Mrs.  Higgs  having 
hysterics  and  Mrs.  Death  indulging  in  visions." 


ERIC  PRONOUNCES  IT  SPIF  347 

"Whatever  do  you  mean?"  she  cried,  with  puckered 
brows. 

He  explained  the  allusion. 

"But  my  not  being  able  to  forgive  myself  will  not 
produce  all  those  catastrophes,"  she  protested. 

"It  will,"  he  replied  solemnly.  "Then  there's  Eric's 
bowling-practice." 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  startled,  her  face  dyed  suddenly 
crimson.  She  turned  aside  and  her  eyes  dropped. 

"Don't  you  think  we  might  be  friends?"  he  said 
gently,  bending  towards  her. 

She  did  not  reply,  still  keeping  her  head  turned  from 
him. 

"I  stayed  on  because  I — "  he  paused,  "wanted  to 
get  to  know  you  better,"  he  added. 

Nero  watched  the  pair  with  speculative  eye.  Mirac- 
ulously a  second  mound  of  white  sweetness  had  taken 
the  place  of  the  first.  Here  indeed  was  a  king  among 
men. 

"You  will  try  and  forgive  yourself?"  he  persisted. 

UT »» 

"You  mustn't  give  Nero  another  piece,"  she  cried, 
"so  please  come  away." 

"On  condition  that  it  is  to  the  pinewood,"  he  said, 
as  he  produced  two  more  lumps  of  sugar  for  Nero.  "I 
must  talk  to  you,  and  I  think  the  pines  will  help." 

She  turned  and  he  followed,  leaving  Nero  in  the  en- 
joyment of  the  last  of  Janet's  sugar. 

In  silence  they  recrossed  the  lawn,  Eric  dodging  to 
cover  just  in  time.  A  few  minutes  later,  with  a  little 
sigh  of  content,  Marjorie  sank  down  upon  the  carpet 
of  pine-needles,  Smith  dropping  beside  her.  He  made 
no  effort  to  break  the  silence;  but  continued  to  gaze 
steadily  at  the  profile  she  turned  towards  him,  as  she 


348        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

allowed  the  pine-needles  to  sift  through  her  fingers. 

His  silence  puzzled  her.  Why  had  she  come  to  the 
pinewood?  What  was  he  thinking?  Was  he  going 
that  day,  or  would  he  remain  on  until  the  morrow? 

"I  want  to  tell  you  something,"  he  said  at  length. 

She  looked  up  quickly,  a  startled  look  in  her  eyes. 

"I  have  just  heard  that  Alfred  Warren  was  killed  at 
Neuve  Chapelle." 

For  several  minutes  there  was  silence.  Instinctively 
her  thoughts  had  flown  to  South  Africa,  where  a  widow 
would  weep  for  an  only  son. 

"He  made  good,"  said  Smith  presently. 

"I'm  glad,"  she  said  simply.  "Poor  Grey  Lady," 
she  added. 

"Grey  Lady?"  he  queried. 

"I  always  call  Lady  Warren  'Grey  Lady,'  "  she  said, 
with  a  sad  little  smile. 

"Tell  me  about  her." 

When  nearly  half-an-hour  later  she  concluded  with 
the  words,  "She's  the  most  beautiful  old  lady  I  have 
ever  known,"  Smith  felt  something  more  than  a  pass- 
ing compassion  for  the  mother  who  had  suffered  so 
much  because  of  an  erring  son. 

"And  now  I  want  to  tell  you  something,"  she  said, 
after  another  long  silence,  taking  up  another  handful 
of  needles  and  allowing  them  to  cascade  back  to  their 
mother  carpet. 

She  paused,  then  as  he  made  no  response  she  con- 
tinued : 

"I — I  tried  to  dislike  you,"  she  paused  again,  the 
pine-needles  slipping  silently  through  her  fingers. 

"I  think,"  she  continued,  as  she  took  another  hand- 


ERIC  PRONOUNCES  IT  SPIF  349 

ful,  "I  think  I  always  knew  in  my — really,  that  you 
were  not  Mr.  Warren;  but  I,  I  forced  myself  to  dis- 
like you." 

"Yes,"  he  said  gently,  as  she  hesitated,  giving  him  a 
swift  look  from  under  her  lashes. 

"Mr.  Warren  always  frightened  me  and,  and  you — I 
wasn't  frightened  of  you."  The  words  came  with  a 
rush,  as  if  they  had  forced  themselves  out  against  her 
will. 

"Marjorie,"  he  said  gently,  taking  the  hand  from 
which  the  last  pine-needle  had  fallen. 

"Pleeeeeeeeeeease !"  There  was  genuine  distress  in 
her  voice,  and  in  the  eyes  she  turned  on  him  there  were 
tears,  pendulous  upon  the  lower  lids. 

"Are  you  going  to  punish  us  all — ?" 

"Oh,  please  don't!"  she  murmured,  as  one  tear  lost 
its  balance  and  tumbled  down  her  cheek. 

"Don't  you  think  you  might  try  and  learn  to  like  me 
a  little  for  myself?  I'd  try  frightfully  hard  to  deserve 
it,  and  I  don't  mind  how  long  I  wait."  His  voice  shook 
slightly. 

There  was  a  pause.  His  instinct  was  to  take  her  in 
his  arms,  she  looked  so  pathetic,  so  distressed. 

"You — you  don't  understand,"  she  murmured. 
"You  would  always  remember." 

"I  should  remember  only  one  thing,  Marjorie,"  he 
said,  "I  want  you  and — and — " 

She  had  not  withdrawn  her  hand.  Gently  he  drew 
her  towards  him,  and  a  moment  later  all  danger  to 
Eric's  cricket-practice  was  over. 

"You'll  never  think  of  it,"  she  whispered,  a  few 
minutes  later. 


350        THE  RETURN  OF  ALFRED 

"Never,"  he  vowed. 

"I,  I  just  wouldn't  let  myself,"  she  continued,  "and 
once  I  hit  Nero  because  he — oh !" 

A  soft  muzzle  had  been  thrust  between  their  heads. 

"Nero!"  she  cried,  sitting  up  straight,  her  hands 
flying  to  her  disordered  hair.  "You  wicked  person ! 
Who  let  you  out?"  but  Nero  was  too  busy  nuzzling 
Smith's  pockets  to  explain  that  he  represented  Eric's 
master-stroke  of  diplomacy. 

Suddenly  there  came  a  whoop  from  behind  them. 

"I  say,  isn't  it  spif  ?"  cried  an  ecstatic  voice,  and  a 
red  head  appeared  from  behind  a  tree. 

"It'll  be  murder  if  I  catch  you,"  laughed  Smith, 
making  a  movement  in  the  direction  of  the  red  blob, 
whereat  it  disappeared,  and  once  more  the  pinewood 
resumed  its  sombre  colouring  of  greys  and  greens  and 
browns. 


THE   END 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


QL, 


JAN  16 


1990 


A     000  040  555     5 


RECEIVED 

ocr 

34 
IQOQ 

DUE 

|- 

Ife-^O 

RETURNED 

NOV 

81989 

